


The Haunting of Skyfall Lodge

by BootsnBlossoms, Kryptaria



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Character Turned Into a Ghost, Fluff, Ghost Sex, Ghost!Bond, Ghosts, M/M, Psychic Abilities, Psychic Q, Romance, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-05
Updated: 2013-08-14
Packaged: 2017-12-22 12:45:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 36,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/913382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BootsnBlossoms/pseuds/BootsnBlossoms, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kryptaria/pseuds/Kryptaria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All his life, Q has seen ghosts. For years, he's searched for scientific proof to back up what he knows to be true. Finally, he starts a YouTube channel to chronicle his adventures of exploring haunted sites.</p><p>His latest location: Skyfall Lodge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shipimpala](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=shipimpala).
  * Translation into 中文 available: [Skyfall莊園驚魂/ The Haunting of Skyfall Lodge](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4497804) by [danacathsu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/danacathsu/pseuds/danacathsu)
  * Translation into Русский available: [Призрак особняка Скайфолл](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5214521) by [RolandLake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RolandLake/pseuds/RolandLake)



> As always, we couldn't do this without the sharp eyes and encouragement of our betas. Thank you, Stephrc79 and Rayvanfox for being there for us!
> 
> This story was inspired by shipimpala's lovely gifset:  
> http://shipimpala.tumblr.com/post/54269581522/q-is-paranormal-investigator-bond-is-really-bad
> 
> ~~~~

“Look at that. It’s perfect,” Sebastian Cooke said, leaning forward to grip the dashboard as the Land Rover rattled over a rut in the old gravel drive. He pushed back his hair and shot a grin at his business partner and oldest friend, Eve. “This is it. This is the one.”

“You said that about the ghost ship,” she said, absolutely unenthusiastic. She concentrated on not tearing out the suspension; the Land Rover was their fledgling business’ least expensive yet most important asset. “And the castle. And the abbey —”

“Yes, but _look_ ,” he interrupted, unwilling to be reminded of past failures. “Even if we don’t find anything, the atmosphere alone...”

“If you’d let me do some creative editing —”

“No.” He shook his head and gave a little cough as the Land Rover dipped down, throwing him against his seatbelt. “We do this —”

“Real or not at all, yeah.” Eve sighed and gave a theatrical shudder. “It _is_ bloody creepy. I can get some fantastic external footage. That stag statue by the gate, for one.”

Sebastian leaned forward again, glancing up through the bug-splattered windscreen at the sky. “Best do that quickly,” he advised, nodding in the direction of distant clouds. “It’s going to storm.”

 

~~~

 

“Skyfall Lodge,” Sebastian said, now fully in character as Q, psychic and paranormal investigator. “Home of one of Northern Scotland’s most infamous ghosts. This —”

“Hold up,” Eve interrupted, setting down the camera rig. “The lighting’s not right.”

Sebastian — _Q_ — sighed and looked around the entryway. It was dark and gloomy, with a tall ceiling that made the tiny exterior door seem insignificant. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up as he looked at the door. Most of the time, he liked a nice, big, clear exit as his path to safety.

Of course, that was the problem. Intellectually, he knew they were perfectly safe. There was no scientific evidence of ghosts or the paranormal. Skyfall Lodge, like every other ‘haunted’ site they’d investigated, was nothing more than an old house with a bloody history. Every single ‘haunting’ could be written off as a draught that caused cold spots, the sound of wind channelled through a broken shutter or echoing attic, even seismic activity from a nearby airport.

But science and reality occupied two opposing corners of Q’s mind, because he’d _seen_ ghosts. All his life, he’d been seeing things — people — that no one else could see. His dead grandfather had come to him days after the funeral. For an entire summer, he’d played hide-and-seek with the ghosts of two children who’d been murdered, their bodies dumped at the neighbourhood playground. His dorm at uni had been home to the sullen, angry ghost of a student who’d overdosed on stimulants during finals week years earlier.

There was no _proof_ , though. No evidence. The ghosts were impossible to photograph, and the voice recordings inevitably sounded more like computer artifice.

Eve, though... She believed him. They’d been close friends since childhood, growing up next door to one another. All their lives, she’d heard his stories and had believed him. And she had the artistic vision to take Q’s talent and turn it into a YouTube-worthy show. They had a minuscule revenue from advertisers at their website and they occasionally took jobs investigating private houses. But it was a weekend-and-holiday hobby for her, not the life’s passion it was for Q.

He needed the world to know that he wasn’t mad.

While Eve fiddled with the lights, Q walked into what his research told him had once been the study. The walls were gorgeously panelled in carved, milled wood. The stone fireplace was one of those massive things big enough to roast a lamb. Q had seen incident photographs released, grudgingly, from MI6 archives. He knew the desk had been _here_ , in the corner of the room, facing two armchairs that had been _there_ , opposite. A portrait had once hung over the fireplace. The Persian rug was long since gone, but Q knew that someone had died in this room. He wondered if the luminol and blacklight would show traces of blood.

An archway led down two steps into what had once been the trophy room. The gun cabinets were still there, but the guns were long since gone. The glass doors had cracked, reflecting the light from Q’s torch in crazed patterns, like frozen lightning.

“You ready?” Eve called, voice echoing hollowly in the empty manor.

“Coming.” He went out into the hallway, finding himself at the foot of the stairs. Thankfully, the building seemed structurally sound; he’d be able to investigate upstairs and the attic later, once he had the house to himself.

He returned to the foyer and let Eve handle the sound and lighting checks. It rankled that they had very expensive equipment that Eve used on its most gritty settings, but she insisted people wanted realism.

Once they were set again, Q went through his intro monologue. When Eve gestured for him to keep going, he said, “In 1961, the world was gripped by the Cold War. Cuba, the space race, the Berlin Wall, nuclear testing... And in the middle of it was our own Secret Intelligence Service, the secret foreign intelligence bureau that the government didn’t even acknowledge until 1994.”

As they’d rehearsed, Q turned to lead Eve deeper into the house. “Skyfall Lodge is the ancestral home of the Bond family. James Bond was born on 11 November 1921 to Scottish Andrew Bond and Swiss Monique Delacroix-Bond. He lived most of his life abroad, until his parents were lost in a tragic mountain climbing accident in the Aiguilles Rouges when James was only eleven. He went to live with his aunt, Charmaine, until her death when James was a teenager. At the age of twenty, Bond joined the Ministry of Defence and became a lieutenant in the Royal Navy Volunteer Reserves. By the end of World War II, he was a commander, and he joined MI6... and there, his public story is lost, until its dark ending.” Q’s timed the speech perfectly, placing him at the entrance to the ballroom.

“Perfect,” Eve said, grinning. She lowered the camera and cracked her neck, black hair brushing over her shoulders. “You want to poke around first?”

“Let’s get first impressions on film,” Q suggested, itching to get into the ballroom. He used to investigate sites before filming, but now he preferred to get his initial impressions on camera. Sometimes, ghosts responded only to his first appearance — his first invasion — and then fled, leaving him alone in an empty, uncomfortable house for the rest of the filming.

Eve nodded and lifted the camera again. She moved to get a wide shot of Q framed in the ballroom entryway and then gestured for him to continue.

“Sunday, the ninth of February, 1964,” Q said, leading Eve — and, thus, the audience — into the ballroom. “Records recently released by —” He stopped and looked back at Eve, drawing a finger across his throat. “Records recently released? God.”

With a mischievous grin, Eve said, “You and your sensitivity to alliteration. It’s catchy.”

“It’s ridiculous.” He gestured her back out into the hallway to start over.

“Ridiculous records recently released,” she said between giggles, though she obliged and got herself set up once more.

Q stuck his tongue out at her — after making sure she hadn’t started recording again. Then, when she signalled, he said, “Sunday, the ninth of February, 1964,” as he turned and went into the ballroom once more. “According to archived records from MI6, James was on leave from a mission in New York, in which he was involved in a heavily-redacted operation regarding a former MI6 staffer and a KGB agent working undercover at the United Nations. Upon discovering he’d been exposed, that very same agent escaped the United States supposedly minutes ahead of a CIA team. Somehow, he slipped through alerts at all US East Coast airports and ended up here. At Skyfall Lodge.”

Dramatically, Q paused while Eve began panning the camera over the walls of the empty ballroom. She didn’t pause on the shattered wood where bullets had embedded themselves. Q felt another little thrill of excitement, realising tourists and vandals hadn’t dug the bullets out of the walls. In fact, the house was surprisingly untouched by human hands. _Proof_ , he thought gleefully, and he grinned until Eve had completed her circuit.

Quickly becoming serious once more, he said, “The KGB agent, whose name was blacked out in the report, and a team of hired mercenaries came to Skyfall Lodge with one mission: vengeance. Some would call it overkill — eight men to kill one — but in this case, it was barely enough. Forewarned by telegram from MI6, James turned Skyfall Lodge into a death-trap. One by one, he killed each of the attackers, until only he and the KGB agent remained. They met here” — Q gestured with his torch — “in this room, where James killed his enemy, only to succumb to his own wounds.”

He felt a little stab of regret at the thought. From everything he’d read, James Bond had been a hero — a legend, even, though almost no one knew his name. In this modern age, in fact, some people vilified men like James as violent thugs perpetuating an oppressive, cruel war, but Q knew better. Yes, they were violent, but _someone_ needed to fight and bleed and, yes, die in order to protect the innocents and build the world they had today. It wasn’t perfect, but it was essentially human.

“Wow,” Eve breathed, and Q blinked at her, startled out of his thoughts. “That’s _perfect_ , Sebastian.”

“Sorry, what?” He shook his head and pushed up his glasses to rub at the bridge of his nose where the pads pinched.

“The look on your face. This is it, love. You were right. This one’s going to do it for us.” She grinned.

Something she’d filmed, then. As the artist of the two of them, Eve was always trying to capture some indefinable, essential _something_. She tried her best to give Q direction on how to act, sound, and express himself, but it rarely made any sense, and he tended to fall back on his rather simple style of giving the audience all the facts.

But there was no need to bring that up again. So he just smiled and said, “I hope so.”

 

~~~

 

Three hours later, Q stood in the doorway and waved as Eve drove off, heading for Inverness. She’d fly back to London to go to her ‘day job’ for the week, and then fly back on Saturday, pick up the Land Rover, and retrieve Q and the equipment. That was their hook: Q would spend the entire time at each haunted site alone, with cameras strategically set up in most of the rooms, in hopes of luring a ghost into showing itself because it wasn’t outnumbered.

At least Skyfall Lodge would be comfortable. The walls were solid and most of the windows were intact. It was late spring, so while the nights would be cold, he’d be able to warm up during the day, while he slept. That was one thing the legends got right: Ghosts tended to be more active at night.

“So, hello,” Q said into the empty house as he headed for the kitchen. It felt like the warmest room in the house, with a mud room to trap the wind and cold. “I’m Sebastian — Sebastian Cooke — though I go by Q. A bit odd, I know, but it’s an old nickname. It’s Eve’s fault, really. She’s the woman who just left. My oldest friend, she is. She turned ‘Cooke’ into ‘Q’ because she couldn’t say ‘Sebastian’ when we met, and it just stuck.”

Uncertain of the facilities, they’d left little to chance in their preparation. Five-gallon jugs of water were lined up on one old marble worktop. He had a diesel generator out back to charge the batteries for his cameras and lights. His cot, sleeping bag, a camp stove, and food were all set up in the open space between prep tables. Skyfall Lodge was big enough to have once been home to an entire household, family and servants alike. He had a lot of exploring to do, and he itched to get started.

First, though, he began heating up some water for tea. “There’s no need to be shy. I’m not your enemy. I can feel you, which is sort of my talent, you could say. I’ve seen ghosts all my life, so there’s no need to hide. Do you remember who you are? If not, I can help.”

That was a problem, Q had learned. Ghosts often lost part of themselves, whether through the trauma of death or subsequent isolation, he didn’t know. Violent death usually left ghosts, whether they were fragments of the victim or a fully-manifested apparition. Most were somewhere in between. They were often confused and frustrated, even angry. Q couldn’t quite hide a shiver of fear at the thought of what the ghosts of violent mercenaries and assassins might try.

“I’m going to explore a bit. I’m not going to harm anything in the house, I promise. I respect that this is your territory — your home. I’d only like to be a guest for a little while,” he said reassuringly as he put two tea bags into his insulated thermos. “I’d very much appreciate it if you didn’t collapse the staircase under me. I’m only here to talk to you, not to try to harm you or drive you away. But if you don’t want to communicate at all, that’s fine, too.”

Q was accustomed to talking to ghosts — or talking to himself, since it was hard to tell if anyone was listening, without an actual manifestation or other sign. It helped to keep his own anxieties in check, though, so he continued his running monologue as he added sugar to the thermos and waited for the water to heat. He didn’t yet have a sense of how many ghosts there were here; at least one, he suspected. God, he hoped that was all. The mercenaries and the KGB agent had no connection to one another as far as Q knew, and that meant they could all be very, very angry at one another for this mission that had ended in unilateral death. The last thing he wanted was to be caught up in reliving their final battle.

When the water was boiling, he poured it into the thermos and capped it to hold in the heat. He extinguished the camp stove and put a lid on the pot, both to keep out the dust and to keep the steam from evaporating. Water conservation was essential, considering how isolated he was. There was a lake nearby, and the village was only a few miles away, but Q was very aware that it would take only a few incidents for him to be in serious trouble. Of course, that was also part of the draw for viewers, or so he and Eve hoped.

He’d bought rubbish bags, of course, and threw away the tea bags once the tea had steeped. He put on a headband with a torch and small camera, with lines running to the battery pack clipped to his belt. Then he headed out of the kitchen to see what he could learn about the ghosts of Skyfall Lodge.


	2. Chapter 2

Upstairs was glorious — or it had been, at any rate. The grandeur of the rooms downstairs was magnified in the smaller, more intimate rooms where the household had once lived. The master bedroom had a study or parlour overlooking the great hall. Beside it was an ancient bathroom, with fixtures intact, though the water wasn’t in service.

Down the hall was what must have been a nursery, with faded sun-yellow paper peeling off the walls above pale wood wainscoting. How many generations of Bond children had spent their early years here? At least one, he thought, because next door was another room, this one with sky-blue paper and wainscoting that was scarred from rough treatment that Q suspected was the hallmark of an active little boy. He ran a hand along the doorjamb, where marks cut into the wood showed the height progression of that little boy. The wood seemed to spark under his fingertips. Energy or just the cold and static electricity? He had no idea, and he refused to allow hope to colour his perceptions.

Next door to the boy’s room was where a nanny or servant must have lived. Another door opened onto a staircase to the attic. Q walked up more carefully, aware that if anything was going to collapse underfoot, it would most likely be an attic that could well be exposed to the elements, if rain and wind had compromised the roof’s structural integrity.

In this case, though, his first impression was that the roof was just fine. Even more exciting, the attic was _not_ empty. Furniture, wooden crates, sheet-draped shapes that beckoned to his explorer’s nosy instincts... His fingers itched to get at it all.

But there was a reason this was all intact and untouched. It hadn’t been sanitised by the MI6 clean-up team the way the rest of the house had. Was that because the gun-battle had never reached this high in the house? Perhaps. But why hadn’t it been looted?

Because the house was protected. Because even insensitive, lead-brained vandals sensed _something_ was here, watching them, waiting to drive them off if they intruded. And that boded well for the ghost to be James Bond, who would _want_ the house protected, rather than one of his enemies.

So Q held himself at the top of the stairs and said, “I won’t go a step farther without your permission. I would love to look around here, respectfully. I’d love to see what’s here, to understand what life was like, but I don’t wish to invade your privacy any more than I already am. If I may continue, please, give me a sign.”

Nothing moved. No mysterious winds gusted through the room, and there was no sudden appearance of a shimmery _something_. But Q hadn’t come as far as he had because he relied on physical cues, or visual confirmation. He concentrated on his other senses as much, if not more, than his eyesight.

It took him a moment, but he _felt_ something. It wasn’t definable at first — merely a prickle on the back of his neck, _feeling_ something rather than hearing or seeing it. Q concentrated on it carefully, pulling on the connection in his mind like a loose thread on a jumper. But what came to him wasn’t welcoming or acceptance — it was cold and methodical. Angry.

It wasn’t _proof_ , but he couldn’t deny that it was something. “All right,” he said, conscious of the camera recording what he saw and said. He deliberately took a step back down the stairs. “This is your home. I respect that. I’ll go back down to the kitchen.” Though it sent a shiver down his spine, he turned his back on the attic and started walking down to the first floor, gripping both railings just in case.

The anger abated almost immediately, and Q felt a tug of... _curiosity_ , he realised. The other sensations didn’t fade as Q backed away from the occupied space, but seemed to trail him down the steps. The feeling was still cold, still calculating, but the sense of menace dropped sharply away.

Breathing more easily, Q circled the balcony and went down to the ground floor, though he wanted to stay. Ghosts were often tethered — to a place, an object, a person — and if this one was attic-bound, it might not have the range to reach him all the way downstairs. But it was more important to establish his trustworthiness; he’d said he’d go back to the kitchen, so he did exactly that, all the while conscious that _something_ was still there, trailing along behind him like a curious moth.

“I’ll be staying in here, if that’s all right,” he said once he stepped across the threshold. “It’s late in the day, but early morning for me. I’m a bit of a night owl, you see. You’re welcome to keep me company — or perhaps I should say, I’d like to keep _you_ company. This is your house. I’m simply a guest.” He turned on his laptop’s camera and shut off his headlamp and portable camera. He’d barely used any of the battery’s charge, so there was no need to fuss with the generator. If he had no sign from the ghost in five or ten minutes, he’d shut down the laptop to conserve power.

The presence seemed to strengthen; it still didn’t become visible, but the feel of it coalesced into a more definable sensation. It stayed behind Q, flickering between curiosity and irritation, and Q felt the intense focus of its observations like a magnifying glass being held over him.

“If you missed it earlier,” Q said carefully as he unscrewed the lid to the thermos, “my name is Sebastian Cooke. You can call me Q, though. I’m psychic, you see. Not many people are. In all this time, I’ve only met two. It’s rather alarming to say that I’m the only one who’s actually remained sane, though even that seems difficult to judge, from an inside perspective.” He poured a half-cup of tea into the lid. “I would offer you some tea, but I don’t want to be rude, if you can’t accept. I’m afraid it’s not as good as what you probably once had: loose leaf, harvested from somewhere far off and expensive. This is just teabags from the market. Did you enjoy tea?”

For a moment, the sense of curiosity, edged with confusion, completely blocked out anything else the ghost might have been feeling. Suddenly the presence was _right there_ , and Q was assaulted with the odd sense of someone breathing on his neck — only there was no person, no breath. The confusion was soon tempered with intensity, and the presence practically vibrated with it.

Fear and exhilaration and _rightness_. God, it was intoxicating, and Q silently thanked whatever ancestor had passed on the genetic deviance that had left him able to sense this so clearly. He screwed the thermal cap into place and set the thermos down on the counter so he could hold the cup between both hands, trying to hide the faint tremble of adrenaline spiking through his system.

“It’s Earl Grey.  I also have English Breakfast, because Eve — that’s my friend — Eve thinks plain black tea is too common. I’m loath to point out that there’s virtually no difference between breakfast tea and plain black. Or if there is, I’m not sensitive enough to detect it.” He wanted to turn, but sometimes confronting a ghost could incite aggression — or withdrawal. He sipped at the tea to rid his mouth of the sharp ozone taste that _might_ have been imagination. “I also brought coffee. I hate it, but it’s better for keeping me awake. I’m good at going from diurnal to nocturnal, but there’s always a bit of an adjustment period.”

Abruptly, the presence vanished. One moment, Q had felt like a curiosity under extreme scrutiny; the next, there was nothing. Q sighed, telling himself not to be disappointed. It was still Day One. He had six more days to go before Eve’s return.

Then a rattle inside a cupboard broke the silence. It was faint and brief, and Q almost didn’t hear it, but being in an empty house — an empty _haunted_ house — meant that a sharp attention to one’s surroundings was mandatory.

“Is that you?” he asked politely. “Would you please do that again? I wouldn’t want to think it was the wind.”

Q was hit with the twin sensations of irritation and impatience that flickered in and out like light from a failing bulb. After a moment it vanished, and there was silence and emptiness once again.

“I apologise,” Q said immediately, though without urgency. He kept his voice calm and controlled. “I don’t mean to offend. I don’t expect you to do tricks for me. I’m simply trying to establish a means through which we can communicate, to hopefully prevent any misunderstandings. I’d like to get to know you better.”

Something hissed through the air from behind Q, passing less than a foot from his ear to lodge itself in the middle of one of the broken cupboards. A small kitchen knife, the kind used for paring vegetables, twanged and vibrated with the force of the throw, lodged deeply in the wood of the door.

 _Shit, shit, shit_ , Q thought in a rush of panic. He was psychic and couldn’t be harmed simply by being in the same room as a ghost, but a telekinetic ghost who threw knives was entirely a different story. Had the near-miss been a warning or some other, more complicated message?

“That would be the type of misunderstanding I’m trying to avoid,” he said, hoping to hide the shakiness of his voice under a stern note. “There’s no need to throw knives. If you want me to leave, I’ll leave,” he offered, though he’d regret losing the chance to document such a powerful haunting. But he’d once ignored an angry ghost’s warnings. Never again.

Then the presence was at his back again, more solid and more purposeful than Q had felt it yet. The sense of menace hadn’t returned. In fact, after the return of feeling warm breath on his neck, he felt something low and _amused_. The rumble of low, throaty laughter.

He couldn’t hide the way his slumped shoulders telegraphed relief. Without malice, this was simply a ghost wildly misjudging something more positive. Playful. Friendly, perhaps. At the very least, _not_ homicidal.

“No more knives,” he said, putting down the cup of tea. At some point, the contents had splashed out over his hands and onto his jeans, over his right knee. Thankfully, the tea hadn’t been hot enough to burn. He flattened his hands on the counter and breathed for a few seconds. “I won’t hurt you, but you mustn’t hurt me. Can we agree on that point, please?”

If anything, the sense of amusement increased. The tickle on his neck turned more purposeful, moving from the bare skin just above his collar to his nape, tickling his hair. The amusement shifted to hold a hint of incredulity. Then the touch vanished, and the presence shifted away from Q and towards the cupboard.

Drawn by that presence, Q followed, eyes fixed to the knife. At the first twitch, he might well bolt. He didn’t know if it was cowardice or self-preservation or intelligence or a combination of all three. He stopped, fully aware that he wasn’t alone, and he cursed himself for not turning the laptop. Had it caught the footage of the knife? Where had it come from?

Somewhat frustrated by his failure, he lifted a hand slowly. “I’m going to take down the knife,” he said, pausing his fingers a couple of inches from the hilt. “I’d like to see it. I’d also like to _not_ bleed.”

The presence had trailed behind him, radiating anticipation still underscored by curiosity. It laughed again, the sound louder and richer on Q’s skin and in his mind, and it coalesced against his back as if trying to assure him it wasn’t lying in wait. It was close, and were it solid, Q would have been brushing against it as he moved.

Heart pounding, Q closed the last couple of inches and curved his fingers around the handle of the knife. The light coming through the windows was just enough for him to make out the details. The knife was small and very good quality. The handle was wood, striated light and dark, with three brass pins holding the blade in place.

It took effort for him to pull it free from the cupboard door. The hinge squealed in protest, and when the door opened, Q felt a moment’s panic, because something was in there, up on a high shelf. The sense of anticipation from the ghost increased, and Q could feel eagerness and perhaps even the slightest edge of hopefulness roll off it.

Hoping it wasn’t something horrid, like a long-dead rat, Q reached up into the shadows and touched something hard. Smooth. Thankfully _not_ furry or unpleasantly squishy. With a bit of stretching, he managed to wrap his fingers around a small bottle, an inch, maybe inch-and-a-half in diameter. He took it down, and for one blank moment, standing with a bottle in one hand, knife in the other, he simply admired the shape and heft of the glass.

Then the words on the brightly printed label registered. It was a typesetter’s nightmare, with text in red, gold, and blue, in all caps and title case, italics, serif, and sans serif.

 _Extra Selected Essential Oil of Bergamot_ it read in English, above more writing, this time in Italian.

Q started to laugh, and for the first time, he dared look into the empty space where he sensed the ghost’s presence. “You understood. You understood me,” he said, elated. “Thank you.”

The laughter rumbled again, this time filling the kitchen with its pleased amusement. The presence pulled even closer to Q, as if wanting to feel his elation. Then it flickered in and out, its amusement coming in bursts, until everything — the ghost, the laughter, the elation — vanished entirely and all at once, with only an echo remaining.


	3. Chapter 3

Because of the scarcity of power in most haunted sites, Q had been forced to re-learn the lost art of writing by hand. Even after a couple of years of ghost-hunting, his hand still cramped every other sentence, but he was diligent in noting everything. He even went so far as to trace the outline of the knife onto a page, though he also took photographs of both the knife and the bottle of bergamot oil.

Intellectually, he knew this was a breakthrough, but his audience wouldn’t understand. They wanted sensation. Excitement. The near-miss with the knife — which hadn’t been caught on film — would have been ideal. Very few of his channel subscribers would care about the tea-ghost-cupboard connection. Hell, most would think he’d faked it.

He ate a sandwich while he wrote up the encounter and considered his next move. A playful, friendly ghost was a good start, but there were so many ways this could still go wrong.

As much as he wanted to go up into the attic, he wouldn’t — not without an invitation. The great hall was similarly off-limits, in case the ghost really was James or the KGB agent, both of whom had died in there. Some ghosts wouldn’t go more than a few feet from where they’d died; others wouldn’t go near that spot.

Perhaps he should stay in the kitchen, he thought. It was a respectful way to show that he wasn’t about to go barging through the house like an intruder. Maybe tomorrow evening, he’d be invited to explore.

So instead of venturing back out, he spent ten arm-numbing minutes cranking the LED lantern; he had lamp oil and candles, but he wanted to save both for when he felt confident an open flame wouldn’t result in him being roasted alive. Then he set up the laptop, checking the camera angle, before he got out his best paranormal investigation tool: a game of Scrabble.

“Hello?” he called, once he had all the letters turned face-up on the board. “If you’d like to talk, I think this might help.” He looked down at the letters and picked out the Q. Holding it up in his palm, he said, “See? This is me. Q.”

The return of the ghost was slow. Q didn’t feel hesitation or shyness, merely the sense that it was being pulled away from something else that had engaged its entire attention. But instead of filling the air in front of the board, across from Q, the presence once again centred itself at Q’s back, curious and thoughtful, exhaling warmly on Q’s neck. Q felt something brush along his arm, and his hand dipped as pressure was put on the Scrabble tile.

Q shivered as elation swept through him once more. Physical contact! There was a very good chance that this ghost was entirely aware of whoever it had once been. This was no fragmented memory — not with such a tangible presence.

“It says Q,” he repeated, holding his hand as still as he could. “If you’d like, you can spell out your name, in English. We can introduce ourselves properly that way.”

The amusement returned, and the box rattled. But the ghost didn’t move away from Q — the sensation of pressure merely increased as it reached around him to manipulate the pieces. After a moment, a D slid from the jumble of wooden tiles to rest at the bottom of the box, followed by an N. The movements stopped, and Q felt confusion and the not-weight of the ghost as it leaned forward to study the game pieces.

 _D_ , Q thought, trying not to feel a stab of disappointment. So it wasn’t James at all. The primary ghost — the one who he’d thought would surely be most strong here, in his home.

Still, it was _a_ ghost, and though Q’s stomach gave a little flip at the thought of dealing with one of the mercenaries, he was resolved to maintain positive, productive contact. “Dan? Perhaps Daniel? Or Dean?” he asked instead.

The confusion was swiftly replaced with irritation, though this time the ghost didn’t vanish. After a moment, an O followed the N. Then a B. The letters were then all pushed together to form a perfectly aligned, perfectly neat row: DNOB.

DNOB. _Bond_.

Q’s breath caught, and he quietly asked, “James? Mr Bond, I mean? Is that who you are?”

This time, when the ghost moved the tiles, it was swift and less deliberate, more excited.

SEMAJ

“James,” Q said, trying not to feel a sick, cold fear, because in _The Exorcist_ , the demon had spoken that way, in backwards sounds that could be translated only through a recorder playing in reverse. This was a ghost, though, not a demon, because _demons_ didn’t exist. Q was psychic. If demons existed, he would have known by now.

So he steeled himself and smiled, wishing he dared to turn around, and said, “Hello, James. I’m Q.”

The ghost didn’t seem to pay attention to Q’s words — there was a flicker of acknowledgement, but it disappeared under thoughtfulness. Then the presence vanished, only to re-form across from the board. The tiles shifted again.

JAMES BOND.

There was a flood of amusement, then more thoughtfulness.

OOL.

Except the L was upside down.

“Loo?” Q read, though that didn’t seem quite right. In almost thirty years of dealing with ghosts, from the very first ghost he remembered seeing as a toddler, he’d never heard of one even remotely interested in the loo. Well, other than in that Harry Potter movie. “No, that’s not it, is it?” he asked, narrowing his eyes. With the ghost at his back, the writing had been backwards, but not upside-down. Now, the ghost felt like it was ahead of him.

“Oh, oh... tee?” he asked, but shook his head. There were more than enough T-tiles in the lot. But there were no numbers, he realised, thinking of alphanumeric replacements and the childish messages he used to make playing math games on his calculator. A string of numbers would, when flipped upside-down, turn into words. If this was reversed...

“Is that a seven?” he asked, looking at the emptiness where he suspected the ghost was. “Seven hundred? Or just seven?”

For a moment, the tiles were lifted and hung suspended in the air for a moment. The the O was dropped and slid into place a space after the D.

“James Bond... Oh?” Q asked, struggling to catch up. He didn’t want the ghost to grow frustrated.

There was a wave of victory, and the second O was dropped next to the first.

“Oh-oh,” Q said, grinning despite his confusion. He hadn’t had this much fun with a ghost since his half-remembered childhood playmates. “Ooh?”

Another wave of victory, and the final letter was dropped into place — the upside down L.

“Oh-oh-seven. Ooh... seven,” he said, sort of slurring it all together. Then he shot a suspicious look at the empty space where the ghost theoretically was and said, “If this is French, I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage. I never learned it.”

The sense of victory wavered, replaced with irritation. After a moment, the irritation seemed to recede, and Q felt pressure on the fingers that held the ‘Q’ tile. It was gently pulled from his hand, and as Q watched, it turned upright so a corner rested against the table. Then the ghost started tapping it rhythmically.

Sometimes, intelligence was a curse. And for all that ghosts had distracted Q from excelling in school, he was an absolute genius. So his overclocked mind rushed through analysing the taps, as if they could be Morse code; counted them, as if they were a hint at a secret code or the combination to a safe; tried to find some sort of rhythm or music; and only then, as the taps grew louder, realised it might just be _impatience_. The ghostly equivalent of finger-tapping.

“I’m sorry, James,” he said, unaccountably blushing as he stared back down at the ghost’s letters. “Oh-oh-seven. Zero-zero-seven.” He barely resisted the urge to get ridiculous and ask if the two O’s meant ‘snake eyes’. Instead, he said, “Double-zero-seven. Double-oh-seven —”

This time, the sense of victory was nearly overwhelming. The ‘Q’ tile was lifted free from the table again, and, as Q watched, something — _someone_ — flickered into existence in front of him. Though the image was faint, Q could make out short-cropped, light-coloured hair. Muscular shoulders under a white collared shirt. A shoulder-holster and a gun. A broad smile and the brightest blue eyes, twinkling with delight, that Q had ever seen.

 _God, yes,_ Q thought, forgetting all about the webcam — pointed down at the tiles, not up at where the ghost had manifested. He didn’t move, didn’t even dare to breathe. He smiled and so very, very carefully said, “Hello, James.”

James’ mouth moved, curved into an even bigger smile, before he started to say something. No actual words came out, though, and the smile faded. The ghost didn’t try again and started to dim as he stood, staring sadly, at Q.

“Wait,” Q said, lifting a hand, though he stopped himself from actually reaching. Instead, he pushed himself back on the floor a few inches, thinking of all the other tools he’d packed, things that could help him focus his mind. Candles, incense, a particularly noxious herbal tea. But he’d worked with nothing, before he’d realised that ghosts weren’t visible to everyone. He could do this.

“Please, stay,” he said, twisting around to pull off his trainers and socks.

The smile returned, though it was still tainted with sadness, and James watched Q curiously. The ghost was still much less vibrant than it was before, but he seemed to hold himself in stasis, the blue eyes brighter than the rest of him, and no less intent for being transparent.

As soon as Q’s feet were bare, he crossed his legs and straightened his back. He exhaled and let his shoulders relax, concentrating wholly on the ghost. On his inhale, he visualised the air — the essence of Skyfall Lodge — rushing into him, seeping through his body, carried through his blood. He exhaled tension and inhaled the connection to the ghost, until he felt his skin crawling with power. His body felt heavy in contrast.

This had once been so easy, bridging the gap between his living self and the world so few people could see. As he’d grown older, though, he’d stopped depending on himself and started thinking in terms of science and proof. Cameras. Recording devices.

Now, he struggled to lift his hand. It was as if the world around him had turned to gelatine. The very air was fighting him. But he only had to maintain it long enough to touch. Long enough to show the ghost that with enough effort, the ghost could follow him back across — could manifest strongly enough to be more than a laugh and whisper of breath.

James’ expression sharpened, and the force of his gaze became a laser focus. He looked confused, then wary, then curious. He took a step forward, eyes moving from Q’s face to his hand and back again. His fingers twitched at his sides, and he took another step, but he didn’t reach out. His mouth moved, and even without sound, Q knew it was his name. _Q_.

Drawing breath hurt Q, as if he were breathing underwater. Q took a deep breath anyway and lifted his hand another inch, towards James. He wanted to speak, to tell him it was all right, but the effort was too much to consider.

Something in James seemed to shift as he watched Q’s struggle. Every thought and feeling emanating from him vanished under the weight of concern. He moved around the scattered Scrabble tiles without hesitation, Q’s name on his lips this time not in wary confusion but in alarm. He closed the distance between them quickly and reached for Q’s hand, never once letting his gaze stray from Q’s face.

The touch was a live-wire, sending a shock from Q’s palm straight through his arm and into his heart. He exhaled sharply and closed his hand around James’ for a moment, not even a single heartbeat, before he lost the threads of power.

He snapped fully back into his body — his world — with a dizzying jolt. His hand dropped and his back slumped as he started to shake. But he laughed in triumph, because _he’d done it_. He’d crossed from his world and touched a ghost. Gone the wrong way through the one-way door. Grinning, he looked up at James, who was staring at him with the same concern. He gripped Q by the shoulders and crouched in front of him.

“Are you all right, Q?”

“It worked.” Q laughed, feeling the crackling, semi-solid touch of hands on his shoulders. He looked and saw the subtle crease where James’ fingers went through the cloth. He could feel the static-crackle of that touch dancing over his skin. Panting and elated, he said, “I’m fine, James. You followed me back, didn’t you?”

“Of course I did, you bloody idiot. You weren’t supposed to be there. I needed to make sure you weren’t injured.” One of the hands moved from Q’s shoulder to his chin, and Q let his head fall back. The touch sparked through him, drawing a metallic taste from his fillings. James looked down at him, studying his expression. “That was rather foolish of you.”

He tried to stop grinning like an idiot, but he couldn’t. “But it worked,” he said, the word breaking into another laugh. “I showed you the path. God, I haven’t done that for twenty years. Look at you, James! You’re perfect!”

“I wouldn’t exactly call it that,” James responded with a raised eyebrow. He sighed and shook his head. “Don’t do that again. The dead are not worth compromising the lives of the living.” James’ thumb brushed gently along Q’s jawline before he withdrew his hand.

“This is who I am. It’s what I do,” Q said, hand flinching up to grab at James, though he caught himself. James’ eyes tracked the movement. “You know you’re dead, then? I’m sorry. It’s just, most ghosts don’t. You must be incredibly strong-willed.”

“To put it mildly.” James reached out again, this time cupping Q’s jaw with his entire hand, watching Q’s eyes. “How does it feel?” he asked, his light and curious tone completely at odds with his riveted expression.

“Like static. Like low-grade electricity. I can feel you all the way down to my bones,” he said, conscious that his voice had gone breathy and quiet. He held himself very still, as if movement might shatter the ghost’s connection to the physical world. “If this is too much for you to maintain, that’s fine. I’m stronger when I sleep. I can come to you,” he offered, not even caring about the cameras — about the _proof_.

“Absolutely not,” James said firmly, the force of his conviction traveling like sparks through his fingers. “That’s both unwise and unsafe.” He abruptly cut himself off, stopping the flow of words, though it sounded like he had more to say. He started to pull his hand away, though he was obviously reluctant.

“I’ve done it before. I’m safe,” Q assured him. Tentatively, slowly, he lifted his hand, reaching for James’ hand. James didn’t move. Q looked down, judging by feel as well as sight, trying to match his fingertips to James’ bare, translucent skin. There was the faintest resistance there, like pressing two opposing magnets together. The crackle of energy became sharper, like a circuit had been completed, and Q let out a startled little laugh. “See?” he asked, trying not to push his fingers _through_ James’ hand, but to just brush across the back.

“You’re safe with me,” James said with a sigh, focused on where their fingers touched. “But I’m not the only ghost in the world, Q. Which you of all people must know.”

Q’s heart skipped, a momentary panic surging into him. “Are there more here? The others?”

“The others?” James asked, looking up from their hands. Whatever he saw on Q’s face seemed to alarm him, and he leaned in close. “What’s wrong?”

Q didn’t answer — not right away. He had theories about ghosts and living humans, theories about how _emotion_ replaced _intellect_ in many ways. About how a ghost’s anger could reach across and kill in _this_ world. It was emotional trauma that kept ghosts locked to this world, and while love might be considered the strongest of all emotions, rage was certainly one of the most dangerous.

“Ghosts are the people they were in life,” Q said cautiously. “You were a good man. A hero. But the other men who died here — they weren’t good people, James, were they?”

James’ transparent form stilled completely, and his focus seemed to evaporate. The edges of his form started to waver, and when he spoke, his voice seemed to come from further away than he was actually standing.

“They followed me to my _home_ ,” he bit out, and his eyes flashed.

Anger settled around him like a cloak, humming with violence that snapped and popped like fire. But none of it actually touched Q — it seemed to envelope him, cocooning him in with James, protecting him with the darkness while simultaneously smothering him with it. Distantly, Q heard the thundering _crack_ of glass breaking, of wood creaking under stress, of window panes rattling against their hinges. The kitchen door slammed hard enough to make Q flinch.

“They don’t belong here,” James said in a voice like death. “They belong in _hell_.”

Q couldn’t keep from cringing back, mentally  bracing against whatever was going on beyond the darkness that had boiled up out of nowhere, blinding him to everything but the brilliance of James’ eyes. Distantly, he heard things crashing, and he spared a moment’s thought for his computer, his supplies, but the soundless sound of _power_ drowned out everything but James’ voice.

He wanted to offer to drive them away, but he was a psychic. Exorcisms were the stuff of books and movies. He tried to breathe, but something choked him — fear or the shadows or the energy that coated his tongue and dried his eyes until they itched and burned. He felt a hot trickle of blood against his upper lip and knew his sinuses were protesting the way the ghost’s sudden rage had sucked the air dry.

“James,” he grated out, trying to distinguish between this and reality, because a tiny part of his mind wanted to believe that this _wasn’t_ happening. Fuck proof. Fuck getting this on camera. He wanted to believe that he was sitting on the floor against the prep table, cringing from nothing but his own overactive imagination.

But he knew he wasn’t. James was terrifyingly real, overpowering in his wrath — and yet, _protective_. Q knew he shouldn’t be afraid, but he was only human, fragile and breakable, and James was a bloody force of nature.

_“James!”_

Abruptly, James’ focus snapped back to Q, and his eyes cleared as he took in the effect he was having. With a resounding _crash_ — be it the crash of energies or objects falling and breaking, Q didn’t know — the darkness vanished. James narrowed his eyes dangerously.

“I will keep you safe.”

Then he was gone.


	4. Chapter 4

James stood in the middle of the moor, catching his not-necessary breath, gathering his reckless emotions around him like a cloak. Ever since he’d followed Q through the veil, everything felt as if it had been exponentially magnified; it was only through intense concentration that James managed to rein himself in.

_What had he been thinking?_

At first, he’d thought Q was just another treasure hunter or thrill seeker, and he’d stood guard at the top of the stairs, waiting. He hadn’t listened as Q and his friend wandered around the bottom floor, talking incessantly. James hadn’t been paying attention, his attention wandering between worlds until suddenly the trespasser was in front of him, talking.

Asking his permission.

It had been enough to snap James’ focus entirely to _this_ world, _this_ moment.

But before he could do anything but look Q up and down, trying to take his measure, Q had backed off and retreated to the kitchen. And James couldn’t do anything but follow, much to his own surprise.

The events that followed had done nothing but pull James closer to Q. He felt like a moth being drawn to Q’s flame, attracted not just by the fact that he was psychic, but by his sheer vibrancy. When Q had spoken out his name — his ID number — James had felt the triumph of being recognised. Being tied to this world by someone who wanted to talk to him.

Then Q had been absolutely reckless and let go enough of himself to touch the other side of the veil. At first, James had been too fascinated and perhaps too hopeless with _want_ — a need to feel that vibrancy of life under his fingertips — to do anything about it. But then Q had wavered, and James had to follow him back to make sure this fascinating, beautiful creature was all right.

And here he was.

He could go back to the other side of the veil. It would be best for everyone involved — he wouldn’t risk hurting Q with his overflow of emotion, which was a side-effect of becoming nothing but energy. Logic didn’t matter anymore, only reaction, and sometimes James would spend days just _revelling_ , letting the walls crumble under the weight of his anger, or the open windows in the attic sing with his contentment, or the bramble roses along the walls grow and bloom at incredible speeds in the moments when he was happy to just _be_. But with someone alive, those things could be dangerous. He’d protected Q from the physical force of his anger, but even that protection had had a physical effect and, worse, a psychological one.

Not that James could bring himself to feel bad about it. It was only the power of his anger, his possessiveness, and his protectiveness that kept the faint wisp of the dark energies that still clung to Skyfall since...

Since...

That kept _them_ at bay.

James took another pointless breath, settling himself. Q was fragile and beautiful and so, so breakable. If the others got anywhere near him, they could tear him apart with very little trouble. And James could protect Q better from the other side of the veil.

But he could talk to Q here. Touch him. Feel the spark between their fingertips and see the light in his eyes. It wasn’t something he wanted to leave. Yet.

“Mr Bond.” The voice was soft and young and familiar. Patricia, his housekeeper, who had joined him only a few years ago, not through violence but because, as she said, she was waiting for her husband. “What are you doing out and about?”

He turned to face her fully, smiling wryly. “Notice anything different?”

When Patricia had died, she’d been stooped and grey-haired, though still bright-eyed and strong. Now, she was young — younger than Q appeared. The desultory moonlight peeking through the clouds picked out highlights in her dark brown hair. She smiled prettily and approved, “You look better, Mr Bond. Better than I’ve seen for some time. What’s settled your ire, then? Have _they_ finally gone on?”

The fire sparked at the edges again, but James pushed it back. It didn’t belong out here, on the moor, with Patricia. “We have a guest. A human guest. His name is Q.”

“A guest, sir?” she asked, flickering in and out of sight for a moment. “One of your bloodline — a cousin? The name sounds foreign.”

James laughed. “It’s a nickname. He’s English, but not one of my bloodline. I don’t really know what he’s doing here.”

“Perhaps he’s moving in?” Patricia ventured, turning her attention to the old house. She would have gone closer, but this was as far as she could venture from the cottage where she’d died. She was strong, but her heart was with her husband and the house where they’d raised their children and grandchildren.

“I don’t think so. And if he is, I’ll need to make him change his mind.” He moved to stand closer to her, between her and the cottage, trying to catch her focus. “I need advice.”

Patricia smiled encouragingly at him. “Of course, Mr Bond. Always happy to help,” she said amiably.

“Q can see us. Speak to us.”

“He’s” — she hesitated delicately — “passed on, then?”

“No,” he said. “He’s alive. It’s a gift.”

Patricia’s eyes went wide. “A medium?” she asked with another flicker. “Oh. Oh, Mr Bond, could he tell my poor Kincade that I’m all right?”

“I don’t know,” James answered honestly. “But I can ask.” Then he sighed. “I’ve crossed the veil for him. He’s... fascinating. But reckless and prone to be hurt by us because of his gift.”

“You — You crossed over? And not to drive him away?” she asked, startled. “You shouldn’t take that risk, Mr Bond. What if you got lost?”

Despite her youthful appearance, Patricia was still Patricia, and James would have blushed if he’d had blood. He looked away, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “He held my hand on the way through.”

“He —” She snapped her mouth shut and looked primly away. Though she’d outlived James by several years, surviving well into her eighties, she retained her somewhat rural standards of morality. She’d heard more than a few stories of James’ missions to the Continent and to America, and while she wouldn’t dare disapprove, she’d never been very comfortable with what he did in service to the UK. When she regained her composure, she scolded, “It’s not a risk you should be taking, Mr Bond.”

“I know,” James agreed. “And I can protect him better from this side. But... he talked to me. And touched me. And I felt...” He met her eyes again. “Tell me I shouldn’t cross back.”

“Well, of course you shouldn’t! It’s a risk to yourself, Mr Bond — and to your” — she faltered, finally gesturing back at Skyfall Lodge — “visitor. It’s not done, Mr Bond. Bad enough you’re locked here by those... _others_. That’s out of a sense of duty. But crossing over just to...” She shook her head. “And for what? He’s a stranger, Mr Bond, and not one you need any part of. You have a duty to Skyfall Lodge. Until those _others_ move on and get what they deserve for what they did, you guard the Lodge. It’s a matter of honour.”

James sighed. There was no point in taking this conversation any further. She was getting worked up in her passionate defence of James and Skyfall Lodge. He could see it at the edges of her personality — the flicker of devotion and fuzziness that came with emotion untempered by reason.

But she’d made valid points. Crossing over for what? And at the risk jeopardizing his mission here?

“Thank you, Patricia,” he said with a smile. “I’ll let you know what he says about speaking with Kincade.”

“Thank you, sir,” she said gratefully, smiling more brightly now that there was no discussion of James doing anything foolish. “You take care of yourself — and don’t let _them_ do anything to your guest.”

“I won’t,” he said with utter conviction. “They won’t touch him. I promise.”

 

~~~

 

Sunlight, James had learned over the decades, had a marked effect on his strength. At night-time, he was stronger — but so were the men who’d invaded his home and taken his life. But even when weak sunlight crept through the windows, he was still strong enough to stay tethered to reality.

Q slept on a lightweight metal-and-canvas camp bed in the kitchen. He’d restored order to all the things he’d brought — some things James recognised or understood, and many more that he didn’t. Not that any of that mattered.

Sleeping, Q looked young and far too fragile to reach across into Death’s domain. Without his glasses, his face was delicate, the faint lines of stress and effort erased into smoothness. He was wrapped up in a thickly padded sleeping bag of shiny blue cloth that rustled when he moved, though he hadn’t moved for some time, since he’d passed even deeper into sleep.

James had been watching him for some time. Was still watching him, in fact, when Q spoke — not the sleeping young man on the cot, but from behind James.

“Good morning, James.”

James turned slowly, not wanting to startle the projection. “Good morning, Q.”

The projection was almost perfect, right down to the glasses. Q was wearing the T-shirt, pyjama bottoms, and socks he’d worn to sleep, and his hair was mussed as if from the pillow. The glasses, though, told Bond that this was an _intentional_ appearance and not some unconscious copy of the sleeping man.

Q smiled when their eyes met, and he reached out as if to politely shake James’ hand. “This is much easier, isn’t it?”

“This isn’t safe, Q,” James chastised, a spike of fear running through him and causing the lights to flicker. He reached out, hesitating before he took Q’s hand. “You shouldn’t do this.”

“It’s all right,” Q said reassuringly. Yesterday, when they’d touched, James had felt the slow, steady, solid warmth of Q’s life. Now, though, the touch felt cool but _real_ , as if they were both alive. “I’ve done this many times. There’s no need to worry. I only want to talk for a little while.”

James released Q’s hand slowly, not sure how he felt about this. Real, but cold. He looked back at Q’s body, vulnerable and defenceless. “This is a grave tactical error. You do realise that your body is open to the return of _any_ soul now, don’t you?”

Q blinked at him, expression melting into confusion. “You... wouldn’t do that, though. Would you?” he asked, glancing at his own sleeping body as if suddenly worried.

“Of course not!” James said, offended. “I would never.”

“Then it’s —” he began, before he looked around nervously. He took a step closer to James and softly asked, “The assassin? The mercenaries? Are they here?”

“Skyfall Lodge is mine. I protect her from them. They’re not _here_ , but they are here.” But James’ mind wasn’t on _them_. His eyes went back down to Q’s hand, and he stepped forward. He reached out and let his fingertips slide over Q’s skin — or the projection of his skin. He traced from hand to wrist to forearm. Q must have quite the imagination, he decided, because the skin felt as soft and pliant as real skin.

Q relaxed and held his arm still for James to touch. “We’re safe, James. I trust your vigilance. I read everything I could — all the files MI6 would release. You’re incredible.”

James laughed quietly. “ _Was_ incredible. 007 was a force to be reckoned with. I’m just a ghost.” He moved his hand over Q’s wrist and pressed a thumb over the network of veins. He concentrated and could almost feel the ghost of a pulse there.

Instead of pulling away from the very improper touch, Q watched him with a smile. “007. What does it mean?” he asked curiously. Without his shoes, he was shorter, and he had to tip his face back to meet James’ eyes.

“The Double O programme agents are the best.” He stared down at Q curiously, watching his face. He looked so... alive. Without letting go of his hand over Q’s wrist, he reached forward with his other hand to touch Q’s jaw again. He looked so warm and inviting, James didn’t bother to resist.

Q shivered visibly, and he _still_ didn’t pull away. His eyes closed for a long moment. “What... What is that? The Double O programme?” he asked even more softly. “Your file was heavily redacted, even after all this time. It’s 2013.”

“2013,” James repeated. “Patricia will be pleased. She’s been waiting for him.” He slid his hand down to hover over Q’s pulse point on his neck.

“Patricia?” Q swallowed, lifting his chin even more. He had the pale skin of someone who never went out in the sun, but he didn’t seem sickly. For all his fragility, he seemed strong. Vital. In contrast to his complexion, his lips were very dark, as if he bit them by habit. “Your file... There was no mention of a wife or daughter. Was that your mistress?”

“No,” James said with a chuckle, stepping closer. “Kincade’s wife. She died a few years ago and is waiting here for him.” Fascinated, he dragged a thumb over Q’s lips. “She stays at the cottage, though. Not here.”

Q inhaled, drawing breath across James’ thumb as if... as if they were both real and solid and alive, actually. Q spoke only when James moved his thumb down, over Q’s chin, feeling the faint prickle of stubble. “Kincade... The name is familiar. Property manager?”

“Yes. Patricia wanted to know if you could pass a message to him that she’s all right.” James took the last few inches between them, though he moved to the side so he wouldn’t trap Q in. He distantly knew that he was being irrational, merely emotional, but he couldn’t stop. This delicate beauty was his right now, if only for a moment. James was going to indulge. He leaned down and let his cheek move over the soft curls at Q’s temple.

“I would, if it’s safe,” Q said, holding himself very still now. “Carrying messages to the living is very emotional. Very... hazardous. If he thought I was pretending, or that I was looking for something — money, perhaps... It’s gone badly in the past.”

“I would _never_ let anything hurt you,” James assured him, the full weight of his convictions giving him absolute authority. “But I understand. You don’t need to do anything.” He pulled away from Q and straightened, only to run both his hands through Q’s hair.

“I’m happy to... to help,” Q said, trailing off as he bowed his head to James’ touch. “What was her name?”

“Patricia.” James tried to step back, tried to pull his hands away, but he still didn’t seem able. Q was _here_ , on James’ side of the veil, and despite the fact that Q was tempered by the absence of his body, he was still connected to it. He practically hummed with life and vibrancy, and James couldn’t bring himself to let go. He moved to stand directly behind Q, just as he done most of the morning — before Q could talk to him — and ran his hands up over Q’s upper arms, his shoulders, up his neck, and into his hair. “I’m sorry if I’m bothering you.”

“No. It’s — it’s fine,” Q said with another shiver. “I’ve learned touch... it’s something that’s lost. Or not quite possible. I went on holiday once. A child had drowned. She spent every night sitting with me, asking for stories. It’s... reassuring for most of them.”

“Them,” James said with a sigh, placing his hands palms-flat against Q’s chest and pulling him backwards into James’ incorporeal body. “Us. Not you. But the rest of us.” He pulled Q close, keeping his arms around the thin chest. “It is a comfort. And more,” he murmured against Q’s neck, feeling the pulse flutter beneath cool, soft skin. “Reassuring,” he repeated. “That’s not exactly the right word, though.”

“You’re very...” Q took a sharp breath and let his head fall to the side, baring his neck. “Are you gay? I don’t mean to offend — I’m sorry — but... I understand how touch can be overwhelming.”

The expanse of skin was too much to resist, and James exhaled as he moved his mouth to Q’s bare neck. “I’m not sure I understand.”

Q’s laugh was strained. “Homosexual. Attracted to men. It wouldn’t have been — But it’s fine now. It’s not... not like then,” he said, trailing off with a little shiver.

It took a moment for James to catch and process the full meaning of Q’s words. He hadn’t fully realised that he was being sexual — he was merely taking advantage of the opportunity to feel alive through touch with an actually alive person. But now James hummed as he slid his hands down over Q’s flat, muscular stomach and over the fabric of his shirt. “Agents — particularly Double O’s, had to be flexible. I had women and men on missions, and occasional men at home in my bed.” He let his hands fall on Q’s hips, digging in for a moment before ducking them to slide under the shirt and over bare skin.

“Was that allowed?” Q finally moved, lifting a hand to take off his glasses. He dropped them, and the moment they were out of his hand, they disappeared, as if anchored to him only by touch. “You’re very distracting, James.”

“It was not discussed,” James said. “This isn’t safe. I should stop. You should get back in your body.” But now that he knew what he was doing, the effect he was having on Q, James _really_ couldn’t stop. He bent his head down to whisper in Q’s ear. “You’re very vibrant.”

Q made a small, soft noise and leaned back against James. “I’m safe,” he insisted. “I’m safe with you. You have no _idea_... I’ve never — Other ghosts avoided touch, except for the child, who only wanted to hold my hand and follow me. It doesn’t hurt you?”

James laughed, thinking that of all the descriptions that could be applied to how he was feeling in this moment, pain wasn’t one of them. “No. This is not pain.” He wrapped his arms around Q and exhaled against his neck. “No idea about what? Promise me I’m not hurting you.”

“No. God, no,” Q said, lifting his hands to rest his palms against James’ forearms. The touch was warm and real. After a moment, Q curled his fingers, holding James’ arms. “It’s like lightning. Little shocks everywhere. And you’re so warm.” His fingers twitched against James’ skin, pressing in for a moment — not pushing through but simply holding, as if they were two living people. Very slowly, tentatively, Q asked, “Would you mind terribly if I turned around? Maybe... kissed you?”

James felt like he should say no, because the fact that he was dead, and Q was alive, was more than slightly problematic. Not to mention, of course, that they barely knew each other. But the larger part of him burned with need, not satisfied at having small glimpses of Q’s fire. James wanted to feel it — everywhere. And Q was _here_. He was in Skyfall, which made him _James’_.

“Slowly,” James finally said, reluctantly loosening his grip. “Pull away if it doesn’t feel right.”

Unhesitating, Q turned in James’ arms and smiled up at him. “It feels right,” he said, wrapping his arms around James’ shoulders. “Perhaps a bit overdressed, but very right.”

James leaned down to bring his mouth in contact with Q’s skin. He brushed it over Q’s eyebrow, then his temple, then his jaw, experimenting. Finally, he opened his mouth just far enough to let his tongue taste Q’s lips, licking at the seam, for bare moments. He withdrew immediately when he was done, watching Q’s expression intently. “All right?”

When Q opened his hazel eyes, they’d gone dark, almost dazed. One corner of his mouth twitched up into a half-smile. “I’ve never kissed a ghost before,” he said, pressing against James from thighs to chests as he rose up on his toes. This time, he licked at James’ mouth, sliding one hand up into James’ hair to hold him close.

Every thought about going slow, careful not to hurt his human, vanished in the electric feel of having Q pressing against him, kissing him. Emotions swelled and toppled over — emotions that James hadn’t been able to feel for years. Affection. Desire. Want. No, not just want. Something more like... lust, James realised. He wrapped Q up in his arms, tangling one hand in Q’s hair, the other one dipping below the waistband of Q’s trousers. He filled the air around them with warning and protections, ensuring that they would not be disturbed by an attack, and _took_.

And Q gave, allowing James to kiss as he wished. The taste and feel was intoxicating, distracting, and it took James long, dizzying moments to recognise the press of Q’s growing erection against his hip. Q was absolutely shameless and unreserved, doing nothing to be discreet or to hide his desire; instead he writhed in James’ arms, deliberately pushing his hips forward as he tugged at James’ hair.

Decades of abstinence from touch crashed over James in a terrible wave, and he knew he had to stop soon or he’d never give Q back. He kissed deeper, more frantically, hands gripping harder until he finally had to pull back, though it wasn’t far enough to do more than put space between their mouths.

“Are you all right?” he asked desperately, afraid that he’d taken something that wasn’t his to take, such as a tiny sliver of Q’s life force.

“Yes. God, yes,” Q said, meeting James’ eyes for only a moment before he pulled him close, into a demanding kiss. He pulled his hands back to take hold of James’ shirt collar. He reached for the top button before he hesitated. “Is this? May I?” he asked without breaking the kiss more than necessary.

At first, the feeling of Q’s hands on his buttons was nothing more than one more point of contact, caught up in the overall symphony of sensation, not distinct enough from the rest to be noticed. But when Q asked permission, James froze, suddenly deeply aware of what Q was doing — of what he wanted. He wanted to undress James. To tangle their bodies — such as they were — together. James didn’t have a physical self anymore, but that didn’t mean the projection of himself didn’t act and react and feel as if it were still real.

He was caught between two warring feelings — the sensation of his entire body humming for Q, screaming for him to continue what he’d started, and his own shock at how... _forward_ Q was being. How unashamedly interested and open about what he wanted — that something being James. It was new and overwhelming and perfect beyond the imagining of it.

“Yes,” James finally said when he was certain his voice was working again. “Yes, please.”

Q undid the buttons quickly, practiced at undressing someone else — someone _male_ , James thought, because women’s blouses buttoned the other way, but Q wasn’t fumbling at all. When he had all the buttons undone, he didn’t untuck the shirt. He flattened his hands on James’ chest and pushed as far as the fabric and holster would allow. “James,” he whispered, pulling back from the kiss to watch the path of his hands on James’ chest. “God, your body... Gorgeous.”

James fought back the insane urge to remind Q that he didn’t have a body, because that was absolutely absurd. He felt more tethered to the physical than he had since he was alive, not just because he could feel Q’s touch racing along his skin, but because the act of being seen, of being admired, forced James to remember himself as he’d been when alive. Tall. Muscular. Scarred. _Strong_.

James reached for the hem of Q’s shirt and pulled it up and off over Q’s head. Then he pulled him forward, pressing them together, feeling the closest he would ever get to skin-to-skin contact. Q still didn’t feel quite _right_ , but the differences between a live body and a projection vanished under the sensation of muscles shifting, of blood flowing, of a heart beating. James wanted to sink into Q and live there, forever revelling in his beautiful _aliveness_.

Q laughed, bright and alive, and tugged at James’ shirt. “The gun. I’ve never — Will you take it off?” he asked as his own shirt disappeared from James’ hands. Before James could answer, Q ducked and pressed his lips to James’ collarbone in a kiss that was dry and soft for only a moment. Then his lips parted and his tongue swept out, hot and startling.

James had the oddest moment of feeling as if he was there, but not, as everything momentarily vanished under the heat of Q’s tongue. He wondered if that were even possible, for a ghost to be so caught up in the physical stimulus of one point of contact that the rest of him vanished in an effort to stay focused on whatever that exquisite point of pleasure was. But then he realised he had hands, and he lifted them to hold Q in place.

“Don’t stop,” he begged, though he only held Q for a moment before he was scrambling to remove his gun. It was useless, anyway, and only there because it was as much a part of his body in life as his arms and legs were.

Q lifted his head just long enough to look into James’ eyes. Then he smiled, sly and openly seductive, and ducked lower to follow the line of James’ collarbone from shoulder to throat, kissing and licking. He ended with a gentle bite as he pushed James’ shirt completely open, hands sliding ticklishly over James’ sides before coming to rest at the small of his back.

It was too much, James thought hazily as Q explored him. He was usually the aggressor. He was usually the one who had to carefully explore the other man’s thoughts, feelings, and limits. It was always on his shoulders to ensure that an advance wouldn’t get him thrown in jail or worse. And here Q was, utterly uninhibited, taking Bond’s body and playing it like an instrument, making it hum endlessly.

If James could have spared any attention from Q’s tongue and teeth, he might have tried to turn the tables. To do the same to Q. But he couldn’t do anything but feel and appreciate. He let Q do as he liked, his only contributions being appreciative groans and tight hands on Q’s delicate hips and sides and then shoulders, and he realised Q was moving farther down, tongue trailing over James’ abdomen to slide over his navel and along the waistband of his trousers.

“So bloody perfect,” Q muttered as he reached James’ side and stood back up. This time, his kiss was lazy and self-indulgent, almost overwhelming, not just in how casually demanding he was but in the raw sensation of bare skin-on-skin. He wrapped his arms around James and licked at his mouth, brushed the tip of his tongue over James’, and coaxed James into kissing him back with equal abandon. Then, while James was still struggling to accept Q’s enthusiasm and comfort, Q asked, “What do you like, James?”

The question threw James completely, and he pulled back enough to stare down at Q. “You,” he said, blinking in confusion. “Everything you’re doing. You’re bloody _amazing_.”

Q’s smile was practically glowing. He laughed and teasingly kissed James once more. “You’re very sweet.”

James tipped his head back and laughed, hands tightening on Q’s body. “Sweet?” he asked incredulously. “I haven’t been accused of sweetness since I was a boy, and even then it wasn’t entirely honest.” He looked down at Q, fire sparking in his eyes, as he thought about everything they could do together. “How can I make _you_ feel this incredible?”

“You already do. This isn’t my body. It’s your energy and my dreaming perception.” Q ducked to rub his face against James’ shoulder, pulling him close. “I can feel you _everywhere_. It’s beautiful.”

James wrapped his arms around Q, pulling him tight, breathing through another wash of emotions. “It’s been so long,” he confessed quietly, nuzzling again at the warm space where Q’s neck met his shoulder. “And then, it was all tainted with the fear of getting it wrong. Tell me what to do.”

“Anything you like.” Q hugged him tight and turned to press a kiss to his ear. “Anything you want to do, it’s probably all right. And you can’t hurt me like this — I’ll just snap right back to myself, unharmed. Don’t be scared.”

James chuckled, the sound trapped in his chest as he started to explore the soft skin of Q’s ear. “I’m not afraid,” he chastised. Then he let go and stepped back, hands on his belt. Everything needed to come off now — trousers, pants, belt — so they could finish, and James could rediscover what it was like to feel.

Q smiled and watched, reminding James of how _he_ would focus all his attention on whatever woman the mission required him to seduce — how it always made them feel wanted and cherished and just a little overwhelmed, with no way to hide their secrets. “I could watch you for hours,” Q said softly, meeting James’ eyes for just a moment before he went back to searching James’ body, cataloguing his scars, memorising his muscles.

As soon as James was free of the rest of his clothes, he reached for Q’s. Now that he’d had a taste of skin-to-skin, he wanted it all. Q’s pyjama bottoms were held on only by an elastic waistband, and James tugged them down, only to find he was bare underneath. It was unthinkably erotic.

James didn’t bother to stare. He acknowledged in an absent way how absolutely marvellous Q’s naked body was, but sight and physical appearance weren’t what mattered to James anymore. He wasted absolutely no time in pulling Q back to him. He tugged Q upright from where he’d been exploring his skin and wrapped his arms around Q, holding their bodies close, shifting until he could feel Q from feet to legs to stomach to chest.  

It was _incredible_.

James still carried out the act of breathing as habit; the rhythmic movement of his chest was an involuntary memory that clung to him after death. Now, as he tried to be as close to Q as possible, chasing the faint wisp of his life force, James stopped breathing. He closed his eyes to concentrate on nothing but the feel of Q against him. He tucked his face into the juncture of neck and shoulder, lips over Q’s pulse point, and focused.

Q’s chest contracted and expanded as he breathed, and James let himself settle into the comforting rhythm of it. Q’s heart pumped to distribute the oxygen, and James could feel it as the blood rushed through Q’s veins. Q’s skin was warm — warmer than it had been when James first starting touching him, or so it seemed — and James pressed against him everywhere he could.

Q shivered and clung to James, gasping out, “God. You’re like _lightning_ , James. Is this all right? Too much?”

The words came to James distantly, quieter than the thrum of Q’s heartbeat. He sank into it, reaching for the sound he’d once taken for granted and now, in its absence, couldn’t get enough of. It was with effort that he managed to respond.

“Am I hurting you, Q?”

“No. Oh, god, no.” Q caught the hair at James’ nape and kissed the side of his face messily, desperately. “Stay. Please.”

James wasn’t sure he could move away if he wanted to. The harder he pushed, the closer he got to Q, the more he became mesmerised by him. Eyes still closed, James concentrated on chasing the spark that called to him from somewhere in Q’s core. It wavered like a tiny blue flame, and focusing on it was something like trying to focus on a dim star. The more you watched it, the more it faded into the background. But if you watched it from the corner of your eye...

Instead of merely trying to _see_ , James tried to touch. The physical projection of his body wasn’t as important or powerful as his essence, and he reached for Q’s not with fingers that weren’t real, but with the most basic elements of his nonexistence — his energy.

Q’s breath caught. “Are you —” he began, and then went silent, wavering in James’ arms. For one terrible moment, James thought he was losing Q, before he realised Q was shedding the human illusion of himself, following James, opening to him.

“Don’t let go of me,” he whispered into Q’s consciousness. He wasn’t worried about losing himself in Q or vice-versa; James was dark and old and broken, and Q was light and young and brilliant and _gifted_. They fit together perfectly without either being lost in the other. James was _almost_ there — he could see the blue flame beckon and burn brighter now that he could reach out and touch it.

But for the first time James, hesitated. “May I?”

Perhaps because he was still, essentially, alive, Q failed to speak. Instead, he reached for James, around him, into him, like the warmth of a fire on a cold winter day. There was no hesitation or defensiveness at all, and James let go of the last of his reservations to reach out and touch.


	5. Chapter 5

Late in the afternoon, Q came awake slowly and lazily, despite the inherent discomfort in the camp bed and how the sleeping bag had wound around his legs. He stretched, tensing and relaxing everything from his toes to his neck. He felt —

 _James_.

He lifted his head with a little gasp, looking around the dim, unfamiliar kitchen. Only a faint thread of grey sunlight cut through the old shutters. Q reached to his left, where he always put the lantern, and switched it to battery because he didn’t feel like cranking it to charge it.

The light showed no disturbance to his gear. Everything was as it had been that morning, when he’d gone to bed. That meant that what he’d done — what _they_ had done — hadn’t manifested in the physical world.

God, Eve was going to _kill_ him. Projection was one thing, with its inherent dangers, but he’d always pushed only a part of his consciousness across. He’d never gone over so completely, nearly losing the connection to his body. But... _James_.

He smiled at the memory and rolled onto his back, and then froze in surprise when he realised James was standing _right there_ , resting a hand on Q’s arm, through the sleeping bag. Q had to concentrate to feel the touch — not because James was weak, but because it no longer felt _different_. The electric power crawling over Q’s skin felt... normal. Wonderful.

Q smiled and let the lantern fall on the side of the cot. It rolled against his hip, throwing strange shadows. “Morning, James. Or, well, evening,” he said, wondering if he could coax James into lying down with him.

“Hello,” James replied with a warm smile. He reached for Q, and Q felt the tingle of the connection as James pushed some of his hair away from his face. That was a relief that James was strong enough to affect the physical world, even something as light as strands of hair. “Are you all right?”

“Wonderful,” Q said, fully aware that he had a ridiculous grin, and unwilling to hide it. “Are you?

James laughed and knelt down beside Q. “I’ve never done that before,” he admitted with a rueful grin that soon melted into affectionate warmth as he reached for Q’s hand. Q found it being lifted from the bed, moved not just with pressure but with irresistible energy, and soon James’ transparent fingers were tangled in his.

Q let out a soft, wondering breath. A tiny part of him realised that James had grown stronger — or perhaps he’d always been this strong but hadn’t shown it yesterday, except with the knife. He knew he should be filming this, trying to capture proof, but suddenly he was reluctant to share this with the rest of the world.

“Neither have I,” he admitted, rolling onto his side to face James. He lifted his free hand to brush through the energy that defined the line of James’ face, feeling the tingle of his cheek and jaw. “I’ve never gone that far into your world before. It was incredible.”

“And foolish,” James added with a sigh. “I left you vulnerable to attack. _I_ was vulnerable to attack. I shouldn’t have...” He paused, searching for the words, then smiled again. “Though I can’t bring myself to regret it. You’re amazing, Q.”

“We weren’t attacked, though.” Q slid his fingers through the image of James’ hair, feeling the crackle and spark of his energy. “We were safe. I’ll never regret that, James. It was... unimaginable.”

James held Q’s hand tightly, then bowed his forehead to rest on Q’s knuckles. He seemed to be struggling to say something, the edges of his image flickering indecisively. But after a few moments the energy settled, and James looked back up at Q, then down the length of the sleeping bag. “May I?”

“Anything you want,” Q said without hesitation. Eve would kill him for trusting any ghost so quickly, but he knew that James wouldn’t hurt him, except perhaps unintentionally. So as long as James stayed positive — not angry or threatened — Q was perfectly safe. Besides, last night, James had been right: Any ghost could have tried to wrest control of Q’s body away from him, especially once Q had released of all but the most tenuous tether. Now, with Q conscious and fully in his own body, nothing would be able to possess him.

James let go of Q’s hand, and he didn’t move so much as vanish from his position kneeling on the floor and reappear laying down next to him. The cot was small, and though Q didn’t take up the whole space, the addition of another _live_ person would have made it unbearably crowded. But James wasn’t restricted to physical space, and Q felt the curious sensation of James’ body — his energy — settling and aligning itself beside him, filling in every available space without crowding him.

With a contented sigh, James rolled to look down at Q and rested his head on his hand to keep himself braced comfortably in place. “I know everything about you now in terms of the broad strokes. But I know nothing about you in terms of the details.”

“Really?” Q asked. His sudden interest and curiosity pushed aside the little demands: Toothbrush, a private bush somewhere outside, and tea were the top three on the list at the moment. “You read my mind? I’m not offended,” he added quickly. “What did you see? I’ve never known telepathy to go beyond conventional communication.”

James tipped his head curiously, though the smile never left his face. “I wouldn’t call it telepathy, exactly,” he said, eyes dropping from Q’s eyes to his lips. “We touched.”

Q felt a blush creep over his face. “We did... You’re all right with that, aren’t you? You said you’d been with men before. I mean, it wasn’t sexual, what we did — not precisely, though it may have started that way — but I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable.”

Instead of looking surprised or offended, James’ expression grew more and more thoughtful as Q spoke. When Q was finished, he shook his head. “I’m not uncomfortable. But I don’t think you quite understand.” The smile turned into a grin, and in a blink, James moved from lying against Q’s side to being directly above him, legs between Q’s, hands bracing him over Q’s head and chest. “May I?”

Q laughed, feeling just a bit self-conscious at his body’s natural response to a handsome man — ghost or not — climbing on top of him like this. “Please,” he invited, heart pounding.

“Try to elicit a positive emotional response from me,” James said mischievously, grinning down at Q with his electric blues eyes that almost seem to spark with his playfulness. “You have until my lips meet yours.” Then he started lowering himself, watching Q’s face intently.

Genius or not, Q’s mind shut down. He stared up at James, hardly daring to breathe. “James,” he whispered, wanting — _needing_ — his kiss.

James’ expression sharpened, and he didn’t try to tease by slowing his approach. He lowered himself to Q, creating points of contact and pressure from hips to chest, and then to mouth as he kissed Q.

Beyond the physical sensation of being kissed by someone coursing with barely contained static electricity, Q’s mind hummed with a much deeper connection, one he didn’t have to focus on at all to feel. it was intent and concentration and protectiveness and possessiveness and lust. The emotions flowed through the kiss, from James’ consciousness to Q’s, without effort or provocation. For one brief, alarming moment, Q didn’t know where his thoughts ended and James’ began, but he let the kiss continue on, until he could distinguish the outside tint, like a haze of dark green, of James’ feelings.

It was beautiful, this sharing.

 _Yes_ , Q thought, fumbling to make his body match his desires and the purer form of James’ energy. _More_. He shifted, sparks lighting over his skin where he and James touched. He exhaled, trying to find his voice, and clumsily brought up a hand, skimming over the edges of James’ body. James had been dressed before, but now Q didn’t know if he still was, and he couldn’t open his eyes to look. There was an impossibly brilliant darkness to James, a solar eclipse that threatened to blind Q if he looked too close.

James let himself fall even more heavily against Q, prompted, it seemed, by a surge of desire following swiftly on the heels of Q’s desperate cry for more. Every thought and feeling that Q had been privy to seemed magnified exponentially, and the longer the kiss lasted, the more he could sense from James. It was almost as if he could hear the articulated thoughts of James’ mind themselves, though at the moment they all seemed to circle in a run-on sentence of _“Must pull away, must not hurt Q, but it feels amazing, don’t damage him, he is mine, I must pull away...”_

Q found the breath to say, “James, stay.” Or to think it, because the kiss never ended. It went deeper, lightning crackling not just over his lips and tongue but deep into him, as if every breath pulled James closer. He ran his hands over James’ body, fingers sweeping through his energy-form like thick fog, and pleaded wordlessly for James to _not stop_. Everything Q was — from the moment he’d realised he could speak to the dead until this very instant — had all been leading to _this_.

Apparently James heard that thought, inarticulate as it was. Surprise coursed through him, and for a moment he hesitated, pulling back from the kiss without breaking contact. Then a fierce shout of greed burned through James, and he sank back into Q almost as deeply as he had earlier, though this time it felt as if he were reaching for Q’s core with threads of his own, rather than asking to be consumed by it.

The sudden jolt of sensation — raw, consuming pleasure — made Q shout in surprise. He thrust his hips up, futile as it was, and clutched at James, torn between wanting to push himself out of his body and into James’ world and the purely physical need that filled him. His hands sank through James’ form, and he gripped the sleeping bag instead as he pushed up once more, twice, his chest going tight from the building pleasure. He heard himself begging, pleading for more, but he couldn’t stop. He couldn’t do _anything_ but lie there under James, surrounded by him, filled by him, and _feel_.

James _laughed_ , the bastard, and pushed threads of his consciousness into Q one more time, his intent absolutely clear. He wasn’t just the architect of Q’s pleasure, Q realised — he was experiencing it _with_ Q, tangled in his mind as he was. He reached down between them and touched Q, though Q didn’t feel the rustle of moving cloth. There was no heat or coolness, just electric sensation stroking Q to completion.

He came with another shout, breathless and dizzy, thrusting up against and into James’ hand, and he felt James’ shock and wonder at the intensity of the shared pleasure. Q fought to breathe — passing out would do neither of them any good — and unclenched his hands from the sleeping bag as the waves of sensation ebbed, leaving him wrung-out and sated, just this side of oversensitive.

For long seconds, the only sound was Q’s deep, unsteady breathing and the wind clawing at the kitchen walls. Then Q found his voice enough to say, in soft wonder, “That was _perfect_.”

James settled next to him again, and for the first time his movements didn’t feel intent or purposeful. In fact, he seemed a bit fuzzy around the edges, as if someone had smeared the edges of him with a watercolour brush. “And you weren’t in danger at any point,” he added with contented satisfaction. He settled next to Q again, more muted and, well, _ghost-like_ than Q had ever seen him, as if he were too lazy to give himself a crisp projection.

“You’re a genius,” Q said, thinking now he definitely needed to get up and do something about his pyjamas, but no force on earth could compel him to move. He wanted to curl up around James’ warmth like a cat in front of a fire. He laughed softly and added, “I don’t actually do this, you know. You’re the first ghost I’ve...” He made an embarrassed little gesture.

James chuckled. “I didn’t even know it was possible. You’re the first one I haven’t chased out of here since... the beginning.”

Q snickered and rolled onto his side a bit awkwardly. He closed his eyes and ‘saw’ James, sensing him more easily this way. He reached out and gently brushed his fingers over James’ form, feeling the gentle crackle of energy. “I’m glad. Otherwise, I never would have heard Skyfall Lodge was haunted, and I wouldn’t have come.”

James stilled; then his form started to shake. Q felt a surge of alarm as James started to flicker in and out of existence, shaking and vibrating all the while, until a burst of laughter made him realise James had been trying not to laugh.

For a moment, Q stared at him, baffled. Then he realised what he’d said, and he groaned and hid his face against the folded towels he used as a pillow. “God. Right, that’s it,” he said, kicking and squirming to get out of the sleeping bag. “I’m going to go clean up, and you’re going to... grow up,” he said, trying to sound threatening, though the image of the laughing ghost, stuttering as if he’d been caught in a strobe light, made him grin.

“Why on earth would I do that?” James asked, amusement sharpening his features enough for Q to see the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed. “After nearly a hundred years, I think it’s too late, don’t you?”

“Thank you for not hiding from me,” Q said as he leaned down so he could coax James into giving him a kiss.

James kissed him with lazy, comfortable familiarity. “I’m going to check the house and the moors. I’ll be back soon.”

“Be careful.” Q brushed his fingers along James’ face and then got back up, watching as James disappeared.

The sight reminded him of how very temporary this all was. James was a ghost. Dead. He’d been born almost a century ago and died twenty years before Q had been born. He was tethered here, to Skyfall Lodge, and Q needed to build a life. He wouldn’t try to capture any footage — he didn’t want to be responsible for sending waves of ghost-hunters here — but he’d have to move on. He’d have to go scout out another site and go there and try to make contact with a ghost, and he’d have to _not_ want this.

He cleaned up methodically, giving himself a quick wash with a flannel and water heated on his camp stove. He hung the pyjama bottoms in the mudroom to dry, listening as the wind picked up, sending the first drops of rain to splatter against the windows. When he remembered that he and James weren’t alone here — that there were other ghosts, aggressive and full of rage — he shivered.

He made himself oatmeal and tea for breakfast, and as he ate, he tried to think. He needed to come up with a plan for his work, one that didn’t involve Skyfall Lodge. He needed to help James find a way to deal with the enemy ghosts. And he needed to sit down and have a serious talk with James about... well, about their relationship.

 

~~~

 

James stood in the middle of the moors looking back at Skyfall Lodge, scanning restlessly for any sign of his enemies. They tended to leave him alone for long stretches at a time — months or years — before reappearing with fury and a vengeance that made James think that they had been spending their time merely gathering their energies and hate for the purpose of an assault.

It was infuriating.

He knew that they had to be hiding in the moors somewhere rather than at Skyfall. James protected Skyfall with every last bit of energy he had to spare, and though they occasionally slipped through his defences, they never stayed.

But more telling was the fact that the moorland was sick. The heather was wilted and diseased, the cotton grasses couldn’t withstand their own weight and broke under their seed pods, and the bracken was forever spotted brown. The birds avoided the land and it was overwhelmed with insects as a result, and James was quite glad that he couldn’t smell the waters, which were murky with stagnation.

James wanted to help; he wanted to see the enemy gone forever, but he simply had no idea how to go about it. He’d tried everything from extreme violence — which sent them away for years but never forever, and at great cost to James’ personal energy levels and the health of his home — to standing there and letting them have their way with him — which had the same result, without the pleasant side effect of the enemy’s absence.

Maybe Q could help.

Q...

James pushed away the thought, unwilling to deal with it right now. Q was the best thing to happen to him since his death, but there was no way he could hold onto what they had. Q was here for mere moments, and then he would leave to go where James would be unable to follow.

Which was as it should be. Even if Q developed some sort of attachment, James couldn’t allow it. He was dead. Q was alive — beautifully, vibrantly alive, in a way even people James had known in his own time weren’t, despite their beating hearts.

A flicker of dark intent caught James’ attention before his thoughts travelled any further down that particularly depressing path. The shape crawled over the roof of Skyfall like a huge, malformed spider, all dark energy without a single redeeming quality. Fury boiled up within James, as did a new, unfamiliar sensation: fear. Q was in that house, only yards from the manifestation. James had a sudden flash of memory — the light of Q’s gift, blue and burning like a beacon to things like him. Things on the other side of the veil, good _and_ bad.

Q was in danger.

James took a few minutes to let the tendrils of his core sink into the damp earth of his family home. The land was growing weaker and weaker the longer he battled, and every time he tried to draw power, he felt just a little less strength than he expected. Skyfall was dying, and soon James would fade with it.

But for now, it was enough. He’d chase the enemy away again, and by the time they reappeared, Q would be gone.

 

~~~

 

Normally, night two onsite would be spent in a detailed examination of each room. In the case of Skyfall Lodge, Q’s plans should have had him in the great hall, looking for any sign of remains — gruesome as it was — near the bullet holes or in cracks in the walls. He had a self-made version of Luminol and a blacklight flashlight to pick up any trace of blood, though after all this time, he wasn’t certain what he might have found.

Now, he couldn’t bring himself to go in there. James had _died_ there. And though Q, of all people, understood that death wasn’t to be feared, in this particular case he couldn’t bring himself to face that one room. Really, he didn’t want to look around the house at all. Or, no. He _did_ , but with James at his side, telling him what was all right to see and what was off-limits.

So instead, he recharged his mobile, camera, lights, and computer. He washed out his breakfast pot and made more tea. He spread out his sleeping bag to air, bundled himself in another jumper and a second pair of socks, and was just looking for something else to do when the air seemed to catch fire, a lightning strike of ozone and static that was as familiar as that horrid perfume Eve wore when she was going out on a date with her latest bloke.

“Hello, James,” Q said, turning to see if he could spot the ghost.

James was there, staring at him, but he didn’t look... well. Instead of bruises or cuts or black eyes, there was something worn and pained and rough around the edges about him. Even more telling was the return of a subtle crackle of menace and violence that surrounded him like a veil.

Q hesitated, but only for a moment. There was danger there, but it was the danger of a summer thunderstorm — incidental violence that could be avoided with a bit of care and luck. He walked to James and held out both hands, giving him a soft, welcoming smile. “I missed you,” he said truthfully.

James flickered but didn’t hesitate to reach out and take Q’s hands. He pulled Q close, and as was apparently becoming his habit, tucked his face into the crook of Q’s neck. “Are you all right?” James asked, voice strong and clear despite the fact that he hadn’t actually spoken aloud.

Q let out a contented sigh as James’ energy wrapped around him. He closed his eyes, and the image of James became clearer to his mind. “I’m fine. Are _you_? You feel” — _darker_ , Q thought — “different.”

“There was a fight. I won.” James’ energy crackled and sparked, then settled. This time when he spoke, his mouth actually moved against Q’s pulse point, a sweep of power. “You’re safe.”

“Oh, James,” Q scolded, letting his breathing slow so he could slip out of himself — just a bit, enough to extend beyond the shell of his skin. It felt as if a brisk wind cleared away the fog, and James came into sharp relief. “Thank you, but you shouldn’t risk yourself for me,” he said, pressing a kiss to James’ face. For a moment, he felt the illusory touch of skin under his lips, before energy sparked over them instead.

James straightened and pulled away from Q’s embrace, though he didn’t let go. “Skyfall and everything in her is mine,” James said, the words echoing with power and conviction. “What else do I have to hold to?” He looked down at their joined hands and released Q slowly. “Would you like some tea?”

Q laughed, charmed, knowing it was James being a polite host. Any tea he had was long since stale and probably eaten by... whatever critters ate tea. Mice, perhaps. Deliberately, he held out his hands again and said, “I’d actually like to speak with you. We can sit down on the cot, or go wherever you’d be comfortable.”

James took Q’s hands, eyebrow raised. “Do you like the stars?”

Carefully, Q said, “It was raining earlier.”

“It was,” James said with a nod. “But it stopped an hour ago. The skies are clear, and don’t worry; we’re not venturing to the roof. I’m very much aware of your” — he looked Q over with a smirk — “fragility.”

Q huffed, hiding how thrilled he was by James’ concern. “I’m hardly _fragile_. I didn’t notice that it had stopped. But you did?” he asked, thinking he should go get his parka, though he didn’t want to let go of James’ hands. “Most ghosts don’t notice such things as weather.”

“You’d know better than I would,” James said with a chuckle. “You’ve met far more ghosts than I have.” He let go of one of Q’s hands and looked towards the kitchen door. “You make tea. And bring your blanket. I’ll be back in a moment.” Then he flickered and vanished.

Laughing, Q went to fill the pot, thinking he was probably mad for wanting to go lie under the stars so he could make out with a ghost. Eve was going to kill him. Several times. And then get rich off filming his ghostly apologies.

He was still grinning ten minutes later, once the water had boiled and tea bags had steeped. He’d bundled up in his parka, checked both his emergency torch and lantern, and wrapped his scarf around his neck. He had a thick plastic tarp he could use as a groundcloth or rain shelter — useful for haunted houses with leaky roofs — and a fuzzy wool throw.

Q didn’t see James come back into the room, but James couldn’t have snuck up on him if he tried. Whether it was a result of their connection or James’ inability to suppress his energy, Q could feel the moment James re-entered the room, materialising directing behind him.

“We’re going upstairs, not on a march,” James said, voice rich with amusement as he tugged the scarf far enough down to place a kiss on Q’s nape.

“Upstairs?” Q shivered and gave an exasperated huff only because he didn’t want to pull away and James couldn’t see him roll his eyes. He dropped the tarp and blanket, shrugged out of the parka, and picked up the blanket again. “I thought we were going out into the wilds, with bears or foxes or whatever eats people in Scotland. Rabid zombie sheep, perhaps.”

“Rabid zombie sheep in Scotland?” James asked incredulously. “Sheep, yes. Zombies, yes. Rabies? Not in Scotland, my dear.”

For one mad moment, Q nearly believed that zombies were _real_. After all, ghosts were, so why not zombies? And who would know, better than a ghost?

Then he laughed and nudged at James, twisting around in hopes of getting a kiss. “You’re impossible,” he accused, lifting a hand to touch James’ face.

“Not at all. Merely unlikely.” James laughed softly and leaned down to give Q the kiss that he wanted. He pulled away after only a moment, however, and turned towards the door out to the hallway. He tugged Q’s hand and moved — apparently with more force than he realised, because he pulled Q off-balance, making him stumble to keep up. “You’re really going to enjoy this, I think,” James said, excitement in his voice and the grin he gave Q when he turned his head back to look at him.

Surprised by James’ strength, Q caught up and gave his hand a gentle squeeze. He met resistance and realised James was manifesting a concentrated field, perhaps through the same telekinesis he’d used to throw the knife. He was as ‘solid’ as he could get. Delighted, Q got close enough for their shoulders to bump; it was like pressing against a soft pillow at first, though after a quick glance, James seemed to push back, and Q could almost imagine this was what he’d felt like in life, deliciously solid, well-formed muscle under a soft, well-tailored suit.

“I’m already enjoying it,” Q said softly as they circled the foot of the stairs and started up. He let go of James’ hand so he could slip an arm around his waist, tucking close to his body. They were only an inch or so apart in height, so their strides were similar, and neither of them had to scramble to keep up.

“I didn’t know my mother that well, but what I do remember was that she loved the outdoors. She and my father liked to spend time outside, hiking and climbing and skiing. When she was here, she didn’t bother trying to fight the moor for a garden, but she did have part of the attic converted.” James guided Q up the stairs, holding Q close. He spoke with cheerfulness and animation, but when he wasn’t looking at Q, his gaze was sharp and wary.

“Is that why you protect it? That was something —” Q hesitated, glancing at James’ face. “I have questions, but I don’t want to be rude or intrusive.”

James looked over at Q, expression neutral. “This is my home. My personal effects and what little I remember of my life with my family are all in the attic. You asked permission.” He looked away. “The others did not.”

“I always do,” Q said honestly, letting go of James’ waist to take his hand once more when they reached the narrow attic staircase. Not knowing how strong James was, Q opened the staircase door, though he held back to let James go first. “I don’t do the sort of sensationalism that other paranormal explorers prefer. I may be less popular because of it, but I try to keep my work respectful and authentic.”

“I’m sure I’ve met some of the others you speak of, but I’ve never distinguished between looters and trespassers.” He sighed, vanished, and reappeared several steps ahead of Q, facing him. “Are you going to write about me?”

“No! I wouldn’t do that to you,” Q promised, startled. James’ absence made him shiver, and he had to stop himself from reaching out to James. Surely he had to know that was why Q had first come here — to investigate the haunting. Even if he didn’t understand the technology — the webcam and laptop and YouTube — he knew _generally_ what Q did. Didn’t he?

“You’re not a liar,” James said with confidence. “You may write about me if you don’t mention Skyfall by name. When you’re gone, I don’t want to be left here fending off anxious trespassers who fancy themselves ghost hunters.” James was suddenly behind him again, nuzzling at his neck. “None will hold a candle to you. I won’t even have to be creative in scaring them away.”

Q’s breath caught, this time in surprise at how quickly James was moving around him. It reminded Q of being in the hummingbird house at the zoo, with birds flitting around, getting close to his eyes. He leaned back just a bit, letting the now-familiar crackle of James’ energy soothe him. “That’s... Well, that’s what I wanted to talk about. But let’s go sit. Show me what you wanted to show me.”

James laughed and wrapped his arm around Q’s waist. “All right.” He stayed close to Q, despite the narrow confines of the staircase, and finished guiding him into the attic.

Q swept the torch around, subtly reminding James that he couldn’t see in the dark. While James had allowed someone — MI6, presumably — to clear out the furniture and most everything downstairs, he’d defended the attic, leaving the magpie’s nest of treasures Q had glimpsed the previous day. Q was very much aware that he was a guest in James’ territory.

James led Q between the furniture and crates, towards a back corner, over the kitchen and master bedroom. “Back here,” James said, excitement creeping into his voice again. “I’ve managed to keep some of the plants alive. It can feel a bit jungle-like, but the view is quite something.” He stepped in front of Q and tugged him by the hand. “The books were my father’s. Sometimes, when I’m the right mood, I can read them. But most of the time, I either coax the jasmine and roses into blooming, or I simply watch the stars.”

“You really are extraordinary, James,” Q said softly, running the torchlight over the plants. They were something of a mess, with a couple of dead plants mixed in with wild, untrimmed flowering plants. In a couple of cases, the roots and branches crossed from one planter to another, where the sides of the planters had been cracked apart. James must have worked diligently to keep the plants alive after so very long, perhaps even nourishing them with his own energy. Q shivered as the chill night wind slithered in through small holes in the roof — holes James must have created to let rainwater drip onto the plants.

“Not extraordinary. Bored. If I were alive, I’d be considered quite pathetic.” James chuckled and pulled Q to a bare patch of floor. He turned and grinned, then vanished — revealing two floor-length windows built into the corner of the attic, stretching for a metre in either direction. Above them was a skylight, fitted into the corner of the attic roof. The effect was a panoramic view of the moor and sky from a glass almost-conservatory. “What do you think?” James asked from behind him.

Q walked up to the very edge, where the ceiling was just low enough to force him to stoop. The windows were designed to swing open, but the hinges were crusted with corrosion. Outside, the darkness stretched forever, and overhead, the view of the stars... “God, this needs a telescope. Though I suppose most nights it’s too cloudy. This is gorgeous, James.” He turned and tried to imagine what it had been like so many years ago. What had James’ mother, Monique, been like? Lovely, perhaps blonde and blue-eyed, just like her son. Q imagined her sitting here, probably in some beautiful, warm dress, coaxing flowers to life — a garden in the middle of the lonely, desolate moors. He turned a sad smile on James and said, “I can see why you preserved it. Thank you for showing me.”

James’ energy snapped with satisfaction and pride, and he moved to stand next to what appeared to be a rose bush. It was huge and vibrant, with clusters of tiny red roses blooming all along the stems. “Avoid this one. Its thorns are bigger than its flowers.” He plucked a handful of flowers from the vine and held them out to Q, the energy-shape of his hands wavering slightly, making the flowers bob in place as if suspended on water. “I haven’t been able to smell them since I died, but I remember how lovely and intoxicating they are.”

“Your control is unbelievable,” Q said, holding out his cupped hands for the flowers. When James dropped them into his palm, he lifted them into the torchlight, examining them. The blooms were furled tightly for the night. The stems were pinched off just below each flower. “This is perfect, James. How in the world do you have such fine control?” He lifted the flowers and inhaled, closing his eyes at the rich, sweet scent.

James smiled. “Practise and concentration. Do most ghosts not have that same control?”

“Oh, no. Not even close.” Q grinned proudly at James. “The children at the playground could hardly push a ball — with no consideration for direction.”

“At least you get to benefit from my boredom and constant practising,” James said with a smirk that wasn’t about flowers.

Q felt a blush creep up his neck and into his face as he thought about just how dexterous James’ manipulation of physical matter was. “I, uh... May I sit?” he asked, sweeping the torch around until he spotted a stack of boxes that looked fairly solid. He hid his face by taking another deep breath, nose pressed to the roses.

“Of course.” James sat next to the rose bush and looked at Q expectantly.

Q put the torch and roses on the floor. He spread the blanket over the crates, thinking he didn’t want to see if James’ control was fine enough to get splinters out of his arse, and then settled down. Once he was certain they wouldn’t collapse under him, he took the small lantern from his coat pocket and started to crank it.

“Ghosts are anchored to this world by three things, in my experience: significant places, people, or items. The place is usually, though not always, where they died. If it’s an item, it could be something with a deep emotional connection — a wedding band, for example — or something connected to their death, such as a weapon. The person might be a child or spouse.” He set down the lantern, trusting it to glow for at least a few minutes, and looked at James. “You mentioned Patricia was waiting for her... husband?”

“Yes,” James said with a small smile. “She and Kincade have been together since they were teenagers. I don’t think she trusts him to find his way up to the next life without her.”

Q couldn’t help but laugh at that. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard one ghost expressing concern about a living person’s ability to handle the transition from life to death. “Then when he dies, they’ll most likely both move on together.” He took a breath and told himself to stay calm as he continued, “Just like if it’s this house that keeps you here, you might choose to move on when it’s safe — when the other ghosts are gone — or when time finally claims the property.”

“Choose to move on,” James said with a dark laugh. “Interesting choice of words.”

Q nodded, not flinching from the little edge in James’ voice. “You can, you know. You just have to let go of whatever keeps you here. If it’s not a person — and I don’t believe it is — then it’s either the house itself or some other object of significance. Which is... Well, first, do you have any idea what it could be? You don’t have to tell me, if you don’t want to. I understand how personal it can be.”

James stared at Q silently for long moments, eyes unfocused and expression thoughtful. “It’s not the house,” he finally said quietly — or, _silently_ , Q realised. James wasn’t using his voice but projecting his thoughts. The words were faint enough that Q wondered if he was meant to hear them at all, or if he was simply privileged to because of their connection. “It’s not the land.”

Slowly, Q lifted a hand, hoping to invite James — who was incredibly empathic — to read his harmless intent. “Then I have a proposal for you, if you’d be interested.”

James flickered, and his head tilted in question. He disappeared from his place by the roses and reappeared standing in front of Q. He took Q’s hand, smiling, and through the connection Q felt James’ curiosity and warm affection. “I’m always interested in whatever you have to say.”

Relieved that James wasn’t taking offence at the very personal topic at hand, Q exhaled and relaxed, opening his mind to James to show he had nothing to hide. “I’ll help find a way to drive off the other ghosts. Then, if you’d like, we can find a way for you to come with me when I leave.”


	6. Chapter 6

James narrowed his eyes at Q, using their connection to try and figure out what was going on in Q’s mind. It wasn’t the details — James didn’t care what, if any, plan Q had developed to get rid of the enemy. He’d do anything Q asked, as long as it didn’t put Q in danger. But the underlying motivation of it was much more important to discover. James had reassured himself that Q wasn’t just here to get a sensationalist news story out of him. He didn’t care what Q wrote, as long as it didn’t mean more of a potential threat to Skyfall through the careless trampling of disrespectful tourists. But _why_? What was in it for Q?

But of the tangled emotions James could feel from Q, greed wasn’t among them. It was reassuring, but the rest of Q’s thoughts were flowing far, far too fast for James to understand.

Instead of demanding an explanation, however, James needed to reassure Q. Though the genius’ thoughts were purposefully open, they felt to James like tiny silver fish in a fast-flowing river — too numerous and too quick to be caught.

“I’m not attached to Skyfall,” he told Q, putting his concentration into his hand so Q would feel it when he squeezed. “I never cared for it in life. I only defend it now, in death, because I brought the enemy here. The moors are dying because of that. Because of me. I need to fix it before I go.” Go with Q, cross over — the meaning didn’t matter. It was raw truth.

Q’s eyes went wide, and his thoughts flared, bright as fireworks. “Oh. _Oh_ ,” he said, blinking up at James with a sudden, brilliant smile. “Well, that makes sense. I’m sorry. I don’t have much experience this far north. I thought it was always this inhospitable.”

“I never said it looked any better at full health,” James admitted with a laugh. “Just greener.”

Q smiled. “Then that makes it easier. If it’s not Skyfall holding you here, then we can find what _is_ , and — if you give me permission — I can bring you with me when I go. If you’d want, that is.”

James wanted to lean into Q and put his mouth on Q’s pulse point, just below his jaw, to get a better read on his thoughts and emotions; he wanted to reach deep into Q through that connection to his heartbeat and peer into his core. But for the question James needed to ask next, that kind of embrace might seem to be too persuasive. So he moved back — or, more accurately, vanished and reappeared a few steps back. Now that he knew Q wasn’t frightened of him, he travelled at the speed of thought without fear of startling the young man.

“What do you want?” he asked Q, watching his expression intently.

Q shook his head and held up his other hand. “Not for me. Well, for me, but mostly for you. You can come with me, if you want. We can travel together. You can stay with me, instead of being here, alone,” he said, pressing his hand against James’ energy.

 _For me_ , James repeated silently. He moved back into Q’s vibrance, not hesitating this time to wrap himself around Q and sink into his thoughts. “You want me to stay with you?” he asked cautiously.

Q nodded, shivering just a bit. “Yes. I do.”

James stopped paying attention to the physical and rode the wave of Q’s emotions, concentrating so he could tease them out into individual thoughts. Excitement. Nervousness. Hope. Fear of rejection. Affection. It was overwhelmingly positive, and James let his own pleasure at being wanted slip in between the cracks. “Thank you,” he said, reaching for Q’s gorgeously welcoming mind to share in the excitement.

Q’s laugh was honest and full of relief. “Then you will? Come with me, I mean?” He lifted his other hand and brushed it through James’ energy in a clumsy, enthusiastic attempt to take hold of him. “You don’t have to, but I’d love it if you would. We could go anywhere you’d like. And you could help me find more ghosts, if you wanted. Or we could just do something else. I should probably consider getting a real job before I starve. And you could meet Eve. She’s my partner. She’s been my closest friend since we were just children.”

“A real job?” James asked, focusing on the one part of Q’s rapid speech that seemed to cause anxiety. “Aren’t you a journalist? Do you not work for a newspaper?”

“Oh, no. We work for ourselves. We have a — Er — Right, so, computers and the internet. The, er, silver box downstairs, in the kitchen? The flat one that opens up, with a typewriter keyboard and a screen like a television? That’s my computer. They’re no longer quite so... room-sized.” Q shook his head, worried now, and carefully reached up to touch James’ face. “We have time. I’ll tell you anything you want. For now, you can think of us as freelance journalists documenting hauntings. It’s a bit hard to get people to take us seriously, but it’s sort of a trendy thing, these days.”

James disliked the worry tainting Q’s happiness and enthusiasm. He put the entire force of his concentration into replicating the projections he was fast becoming expert at — his face, mouth, and tongue. He reached for and clung to memories of what it was like to have a hot, moist mouth. Then, when he was sure his projection was perfect, he pulled back mere centimetres and licked at Q’s neck, dragging his tongue up to Q’s ear, and was rewarded by Q’s gasp.

“All right,” he said with a low chuckle in Q’s ear. “You can tell me more later.” The next part was more tricky — projecting teeth was difficult, because one never paid much attention to how they felt in life, merely took for granted that they were _there_. Even worse, using them for the benefit of another was difficult because of the inherent problem in judging pressure when sensation itself was less than physical. He erred on the side of caution, nipping only lightly enough to leave the barest imprint.

Q yelped, “Easy!” before he let out a shaky laugh. “Sorry, no, it’s fine. You startled me.” He reached for James, swiping a hand through his form again, as if trying to hold him. “God, you’re really — To have such incredible control...” He took a deep breath and tipped his head back. “Try again.”

James laughed, delighted at Q’s willingness to let him explore. “We really should find whatever holds me here,” he said quietly, but didn’t pull away. He redoubled his focus, remembering what it was like to be alive and using his mouth to pleasure a partner. He nipped again, this time so lightly he wasn’t entirely certain he’d actually made contact.

“You don’t —” Q cut off with a little gasp, this one soft and interested. “You don’t know? We can find it. We should figure out — the other ghosts.”

James hummed, pleased with his success, and pressed his mouth back over Q’s pulse to sink into the wonderfully fragmented thoughts darting around Q’s mind like fireflies. “Yes, we should,” murmured, then replicated the touch he’d used on Q’s ear to press a bite to his neck.

Q made a quiet, broken noise and leaned back against the stack of boxes. He reached up and took hold of his scarf, as if to move it aside, and then let out a sudden, surprised laugh. “You don’t — Well, this will make cold nights much easier,” he said between gasps, grinning. “You can go right through my clothes, can’t you?”

“Yes,” James said, grinning even though Q couldn’t see it. “I did earlier, too, though I can understand how you were... distracted.”

“God.” Q got a sly grin and asked, “And you can pick up what I’m feeling, can’t you?”

“Yes,” James said, surprised that it wasn’t obvious.

Q grinned and lifted his hand to James’ face, guiding him to lean down for a kiss. As their lips touched, energy sparking between them, he said, “Feel me.”

James caught the edge of Q’s mischievousness, but had absolutely no idea what he had in mind. So James went deeper as he kissed Q, exploring and curling up around Q’s mind like a lazy cat, waiting for affection. The feel of his own kiss set up a resonance inside him, building sensation upon sensation until he was nearly buzzing with it. Caught up with James, Q gasped and revelled in it, surrendering in a way James had never seen — not in another man, at least.

Then a new feeling burst through James, cold fingertips on hot skin, and he was both the hand and the skin being touched. He went still, concentrating everything on that touch — on _Q’s_ touch. Q slid his fingertips up under his layers of clothes, tracing idle patterns over his own abdomen. Q reached higher, never releasing James from the kiss that was no longer mouths and tongues but had become a more essential joining.

James stopped _everything_ except holding onto the projection itself. He concentrated entirely on feeling Q’s touch — warm and solid and _real_ — through their connection. It was _bizarre_ in a way sharing pleasure with Q earlier hadn’t been, because that had been an overwhelming, all-over sort of feeling. This was damned specific. James could feel every little detail, from the scrape of Q’s nails over his stomach to the air he breathed.

Q shuddered and slouched back even more as his hand slid up under his shirt. “I can still feel you,” he said, his voice strained and breathless. He skimmed his fingers over one nipple, sending shocks of sudden pleasure through himself and James. “It’s like standing in a storm. God, it’s fantastic.”

A gust of cold air blew in through one of the holes in the roof. Q shivered and dropped his hand back down, fingertips dipping into the waistband of his tight blue jeans. With his other hand, he undid the top button, and James could feel the release of pressure around Q’s thin waist. Then Q unzipped his flies, more pleasure sparking brightly through him at the press of his own fingers against his cock, even through his pants.

James’ concentration fled him in an instant, and he felt his projection vanish for long, blissful seconds as he gave himself over entirely to feeling. He’d been dead longer than he’d been alive, and the memory of physical feeling had all but fled him. Here, with Q, those memories sparked back to life, and James lost himself to touch. _Real_ touch, not the facsimile that he’d been content with for so long.

James had been concentrating on trying to feel every one of the ridges on Q’s fingertips when he realised that he’d stopped projecting. With effort, he pulled himself back and spared some of his attention for reforming. “Sorry,” he whispered to Q. “You’re... very captivating.”

Q laughed softly, a sound that turned into a thoughtful hum. “Let’s see _how_ captivating,” he murmured. He pushed his jeans aside just enough so he could slip his hand inside his pants. James felt cool, bare fingers and hot skin over Q’s hardening length, as if he were both touching and being touched.

“Fucking hell,” James whispered, knowing that his projection flickered in and out as his attention was torn between holding onto it and experiencing arousal as a living, breathing human.  He sank even deeper, willing to lose himself completely to Q.

Then Q started to move, and though James’ fuzzy memory was that this wasn’t how _he’d_ once liked to be touched, it was Q’s pleasure he was feeling as if it were his own. The pressure, the speed, the way Q’s fingers tightened and relaxed as his hand moved up and down — it was _perfect_ for Q, and so it was perfect for James as well.

“If it wasn’t bloody freezing,” Q said, panting a bit, “I’d do this... for hours, for you.” Then, with another laugh, he said, “Well, not hours. But... Yes. You understand, right?”

A response would have required coherent thought and concentration, and James had neither. Instead, he thought about what Q had tried to describe — _like standing in a storm_. James hadn’t purposely manipulated his energies for Q’s benefits, but he thought he could try now. Instead of concentrating, he let go — let the waves of pleasure coming from Q roll through him. He didn’t have to do anything except allow their energies to sync, so that the subtle current Q felt from him would do nothing but pulse along Q’s skin and in his body in perfect time with his own hand.

“Oh, god,” Q gasped. His hand went still for a single heartbeat before he started to move again as though surrendering to James’ energy. He let his head fall back against the crate, and even the feel of hard-edged wood and the air shifting over his skin felt incredible to James, adding to the sensation, building on it. He could feel the way Q’s muscles went tight, the pressure of his toes curling against his shoes. He felt every sharp, stuttered breath of cold air as it passed over his lips and into his body, exhaled in short, hot bursts. Q’s sleeves were soft against his arms, his pants rough against his knuckles as his hand moved faster, fingers brushing over his hair to add ticklish little sparks to the mounting pleasure.

As if the physical feeling wasn’t enough for James, he began to feel yet another new sensation. Pride and satisfaction coursed through him as his contributions increased both his and Q’s pleasure. He was an active participant in this, manipulating his energies to match Q’s.

He hadn’t cared for the pleasure of living in a very long time. He hadn’t been overly concerned with it when he was alive, either. But here, wrapped around Q, the knowledge that he was pushing Q over the edge made him feel _fantastic_. He felt his energies burn bright within Q’s mind and body and, without forming words, sent Q thoughts of pure, intense pleasure.

Q’s breath caught in his chest. His hand stopped moving as his last coherent thoughts dissipated into raw bliss, dragging James under with him. James didn’t try to hold onto himself; he let go and gave in to the sensation that spread through him like fire consuming kindling. It seemed to go on forever, until James could do nothing but curl up inside and around and with Q, listening to the way Q’s heartbeat slowed.

“God, James,” Q whispered, his voice loud and real in the dark, cold attic. Q took in a breath, and James felt it sweep through them both, refreshing and energizing.

As Q’s thoughts started to sharpen and come back into coherence, James reluctantly pulled back and away. There was a fine line between sharing consciousness and possession, and James had absolutely no interest in finding that line with Q. He reformed to sit at Q’s feet, leaning back so his ‘weight’ rested against Q’s legs. He tilted his head to touch Q’s knee.

“You’re incredible. Thank you,” James said quietly.

Q used a corner of the blanket to clean himself up. He gave a shaky little laugh and said, “I haven’t felt like this since I was fifteen. You’re a bad influence, James.”

“There _are_ advantages to being raw energy,” James said with a contented laugh.

After Q was dressed and warm again, he reached out to run his fingers through James’ hair. He’d slipped out of himself enough that the touch was almost physical for James, soft and relaxing. “So... does this mean you’ll think about _this_?” Q asked lazily. Then he laughed and clarified, “About us? Coming with me?”

James closed his eyes — a two-part act of closing his projection’s eyes and cutting off all feedback from that sense separately — and concentrated on feeling Q’s fingers in his hair. He wanted to go with Q, but he worried that it wasn’t healthy for Q to be attached to a ghost rather than a real person. As good as this was, there were certain things Q could never do with James. Of course, James would also be useful to Q’s work.

Then again, he had a way out without sounding like an arse. He’d set for a condition — the enemy had to be eliminated. As eager as Q was to help, Q hadn’t actually come up with any concrete ideas. And if Q _did_ help, it would be an excellent way for James to be reassured that Q would be fully capable of making James leave, if it ever became necessary.

“I would love to come with you,” he said truthfully. “I still don’t know what attachment I have here, though. It’s been such a long time since I’ve thought about physical objects from my past.”

“I might be able to sense it,” Q guessed. He sat upright with a little sigh and then leaned over to brush his face against James’ hair. “There should be something I can pick up. But we shouldn’t even try until we’ve done something about the others. We don’t want them getting near it.”

“Why?” James asked curiously. “What could they do with it?”

Instead of answering, Q exhaled and projected a sense of worry directly to James, accompanied by the mental image of fire. Then he asked, “Would you mind if we moved back downstairs, where it’s warmer? Or are we safer up here?”

Ambient temperature was something James had extraordinary difficulty detecting. He gave Q an apologetic look, vanished, and reformed a few feet in front of Q. “Would you like me to start a fire in the hearth for you?”

Q laughed and got to his feet. He started to gather his things, and he turned on his torch, filling the corner of the attic with light. “Let’s not startle any nesting birds. It’s warm enough downstairs, out of the wind. But this is gorgeous, James.” He looked towards the corner windows, turning the torch down to keep the glare from obscuring the view. “Thank you for letting me see this.”

“You’re the first person besides me to see it since my parents died.” James looked past Q, trying to recall the image of his mother attending to what used to be tiny plants, laughing and telling him that even Scotland couldn’t fight her on this. “I’m glad I’m not the only one to hold the memory now.” He smiled. “Now let me start a fire for you. I won’t even injure any birds in the process.”

With a laugh he vanished to the woods a few kilometres away. Maybe with a few logs and a bit of energy manipulation, Q would be warm enough to consider not having to wear all those clothes all the time.

He grinned at the thought.


	7. Chapter 7

By the time Q was settled in front of the huge wood-burning stove down in the kitchen, he was grinning in fascination. James’ power was unbelievable. Fine manipulation to brush hairs, combined with the raw strength to carry whole branches — even if he was a bit clumsy about it, banging doors and dropping the branches now and then... Together, there was nothing they couldn’t accomplish. He was certain of it.

Q had firelighters Eve had made from paraffin and dryer lint. He used one, to James’ amusement, to get the fire started, after stacking the wood according to James’ instructions. Soon, the kitchen was warm and cosy, and Q was able to start shedding layers.

“Right, then,” he finally said as he sat on the cot, leaning against his pack and spare clothes as a makeshift pillow. “You said you drove them off. Are they still gone? We’re alone?”

“For now.” James disappeared and reappeared, settling into a sitting position at the end of Q’s cot. Though he was sitting on Q’s shins, Q felt no pressure, just a faint tingle, like static. “I can’t always sense them coming, though. They’ve become very good at sneaking up on me.”

“We’ll be careful,” Q said, relaxing enough to sense the area around them.

This was how he first scouted sites — a very binary sense of ‘ghosts are-or-are-not present’ — and though James flared bright against his mind like a bonfire’s warmth, he could still reach beyond that warmth in hopes of picking up a warning tingle.

He opened his eyes and smiled at James, thinking just how handsome he was, both his remembered physical form and his energy. He was a soothing, steady presence, like the foundation of a house, strong and somehow permanent.

James raised an eyebrow in question, though his smile didn’t leave his face. “What?”

Q blushed when he realised he was staring. “Just, you,” he muttered, still grinning. “Your energy. Your strength. I’ve never been so glad to have been born with this gift.”

“I can’t imagine what it must be like for you. What it must have been like when you were small.” James’ smile turned sad, then vanished. “Not all of us are pleasant. It must have been difficult for you at times.”

“Eve helped. I hope you like her,” Q said, remembering. “She read comics. One day, she showed me a Superman comic, and said I had to be like Clark Kent, and not tell anyone. She probably kept me out of years of therapy,” he added with a laugh. “But I was never _scared_ of the ghosts. Even the nasty ones. I learned very quickly that I could run away. Always leave an escape route. That sort of thing. And some places...” He shivered. “Some places, I just won’t go near.”

“May I ask why?” James leaned forward slightly, studying Q’s expression. “You don’t have to tell me, but I am curious.”

With a little shiver, Q nodded towards the stove and said, “Fire. I suspect that fire can wholly destroy a ghost’s tether, but it doesn’t always work. When a ghost remains after a fire, untethered...” Unthinkingly, his mind reached for James, seeking shelter against his calm, protective energy. “It’s as if the ghost loses its sense of self. What remains behind is pure rage. That’s where all the ghost stories and horror movies come from, I think. From ghosts who lose the last thing that matters to them, but still don’t move on. I won’t go near those ghosts.”

In an instant James was gone from the end of the bed, vanishing only to reappear next to Q on the cot. He reached for Q’s hands, comfort radiating from the touch, flowing through James and to Q through small, electric sparks. “I see,” he said quietly, and despite James’ efforts to hide it, Q could feel his alarm.

“It’s all right,” Q said, welcoming James’ touch. Smiling at how relaxed he felt, knowing he was safe, he said, “I’ve never taken foolish chances. I promise. And I think that could be the key to getting rid of the others. We find what’s tethering them, and we burn it.”

“Absolutely not,” James said, a surge of protectiveness coursing through him. “Too dangerous.”

“If I were alone, I’d agree. But together, we can destroy their tethers _and_ push them away,” he said confidently. “You know how to fight them, and I can share my strength with you.”

“Is there any other way to deal with a ghost?” James asked after a tense, silent moment. “Even if you haven’t done it. Maybe just heard about it?”

“Like an exorcism?” Q smiled and shook his head. “We tried things like crystals and herbs and all that when we first started blogging.” Then, realising James probably had no idea what he meant, he corrected, “Investigating, I mean. None of it had any effect. Really, your condition is a very scientific one. In another twenty years, I think we’ll even have the language to explain it, thanks to quantum physics.”

James’ form became agitated, the edges of him shifting and blurring before snapping together again. He let go of Q’s hands and looked down at him thoughtfully and unhappily. “If we burn Skyfall, we turn the enemy into something even more powerful, more angry, and less controlled than what they are now.” He frowned. “The land is _already_ dying because of them. What happens when we leave? What happens to anyone who moves here, without my being able to warn them away? What happens to the land?”

Q shook his head, trying to interrupt. “James, no. No, we don’t burn Skyfall,” he said, reaching out to try and smooth down the spikes of James’ energy. “Burning their tethers should weaken them. That’s when you give them that last push to move on — while they’re off-balance.”

James’ expression didn’t change. He stared thoughtfully at Q, though he visibly calmed under Q’s touch, his projection calming into something more stable. “Have you ever done it before?”

Q didn’t answer right away. Instead, he opened himself to James, inviting him close, trying to give him the reassurance he seemed to need. “Unless I misread your files, you’re something of an expert at fighting and improvising. And immodest as it might be to admit, I’m something of a genius.”

James seemed completely unable to resist the temptation of Q’s invitation. His projection dimmed as he leaned into Q, his energy calming to a gentle hum. Q could feel as James explored, looking for any hint of nervousness or fear. Finding none, he settled, his form solidifying as he withdrew just enough to tangle his basic sense of self with Q.

“I’ll think about it,” he said.

That was better than an outright refusal. Q tried to capture the sense of holding James in his arms, knowing it would comfort them both. “The only other alternative is to leave them here, while you come with me. Without you as a target, they might move on, but there’s no way to guarantee it. Their influence might just grow stronger instead.”

James nodded. “I’ve got too used to existing like this, battling them. I suppose it was a matter of comfort, after I’d realised I’d died. Fighting the enemy, protecting something, using everything I am to _win_ against the darkness. Even dead, I could be useful like that, or so I thought.” He sighed. “I wonder if that’s why they fight, too. Habit.”

“It happens,” Q said reassuringly. “Ghosts get locked into a sort of endless loop of action. Time gets distorted, without something — someone — to anchor you in the present. It’s not a failing. It’s simply an effect of your condition. And it’s one more advantage. If they’re expecting you to fight the way you always have, then they might not even notice me giving you energy until it’s too late.”

“Tell me about that,” James said. Without disentangling himself from Q, he shifted to lie next to him on the cot, half turned so he could still see Q’s face. “Will it work like how we’ve been experiencing our connection already? A two-way street?”

“Not precisely. I’m going to... close off input. I need to feed you power. Setting up a loop will share it between us, but you’re the one who’s going to do the fighting. Not me.” He smiled sheepishly at James. “I’m not much of a fighter at all.”

“Good,” James said firmly. “I want you as far away as possible, so if it backfires you won’t be hurt in _any_ way.” He reached out and traced up the line of Q’s jaw, settling his fingers at Q’s pulse point. “You probably shouldn’t even see me when I’m like that.”

“I need to be close enough to share out my energy,” Q said, closing his eyes. His sense of James sharpened, and without his eyes, he could see the hints of darkness threaded through James’ energy. Emotions were so intrinsic to the dead that it was impossible for James to separate himself from the thought of facing his enemies one last time. “We need to work together to push them away, once and for all.”

“One more fight,” James said with a quiet sigh. He stilled next to Q, and through their connection he could sense James’ concentration sharpen even as his projection blurred and started to fade.

Thinking this was an invitation, Q allowed himself to relax, slipping away from his body and into James’ thoughts. He stayed coiled close with James, wrapped around him, and began to think of how to explain the luminescent properties of biological waste under a blacklight, when he felt a surge of violence overtake him, catching him completely off guard. But something about it wasn’t quite right — it wasn’t James memory of a violent emotion. It was disconnected somehow. Removed.

Then everything around Q vanished into blackness, and there was silence.

_Running. Heavy breathing. A huff of laughter._

_‘Most logical point of attack with darkness as the factor — kick the legs out, incapacitate on the ground, three seconds to tap out.’_

Q felt a hard thud into his side and felt the air leave him as he hit the mat. But it wasn’t his body. It wasn’t his breath. Distantly, he knew he was still on the cot.

_Laughter. Rolling. Reflexes to pin the new recruit. Headlock. More laughter._

_Someone pulled the blindfold off, and brightness rushed in. Sparring ring. Twenty-something brunet. Satisfyingly grimacing in pain and embarrassment. Thrill. Victory._

_‘Never get caught off your guard.’_

The scene vanished, but Q barely had a chance to breathe before another took its place.

_Pain._

_Dark._

_Fire._

_Blood._

_They followed me home._

_KGB agent slow on the draw due to —_

_Blow to the head. Right hook. Why didn’t I see him?_

_Aim for the ribs. The shot was to his kidney._

_slowdraw watchrighthook_

_painbloodfirepain_

“James,” Q gasped, pulling himself free of the memory enough to feel a body — _his_ body, alive and breathing. He tried to catch hold of James and tug him along. All around him, he heard a faint, juddering, rattling sound. The fire had gone unnaturally low and cold, and when Q forced his eyes open, he saw the sullen red embers glowing beyond the door to the wood stove, wrapped in shadow. “James, come back!”

“The KGB agent has a slow draw but a powerful right hook,” James said — _projected_ — in a voice full of darkness and menace.

The air was filled with the sound of a wicked crack, and Q felt a surge of vindictive glee.

“I broke his neck.”

 _Well, that’s inconvenient_ , Q thought very privately. It might be harder to find his tether than expected.

Carefully, Q tried to pull James close, saying, “He’s not here now. You’re here with me. You’re safe.”

But James wasn’t concentrating on his projection anymore. Q’s hands slipped through him as if he were nothing but mist.

“The others were... more difficult.”

The light from the fire all but vanished, not because it was burning any lower, but because the force of James’ darkness wouldn’t allow the light to penetrate his void. Q heard the faint ricochet of bullets, the pained cries of the dying, the snapping of bones, the sound of a knife rasping across skin, bone, cartilage.

“Only three of them actually died at the end of my gun. The rest, when I was out of bullets...”

Q hid a shudder — he didn’t want to experience that through James’ memories, if he could avoid it. “We’ll find what keeps them here,” he said, fighting to keep his voice steady. “James, love, you have to come back to me. Please. They’re not here to fight now.”

“I was strong. I killed them all before I died. But I’m not strong anymore. I don’t know if I can do that again without being the one to go first, this time.”

This time, the echoes of screams weren’t human. They were silent energy, loud in their rage and hate, piercing walls instead of bouncing off them. Mixed in with the surges of energy that must have been James’ more recent fights was his pain and despair.

“ _They_ are strong.”

“ _We’re_ strong,” Q insisted, exerting himself now, trying to tug James to lean into him, knowing he could help stabilise James for at least a little while. “Together, we’re stronger than they are.”

Something seemed to snap in James, and abruptly his form came fully back into view. He looked down at Q with fire in his eyes, holding Q’s gaze dispassionately as the shadow of memories flickered in the darkness, muted but still active at the edge of this world. After long moments, he finally blinked. The darkness vanished, the shadows fled, and the only sounds in the room were Q’s breathing and crackling of the fire.

“I hurt you,” James said with sudden realisation, eyes widening.

“No. No, you didn’t,” Q said, dropping all of his defences so James would hopefully see the truth of it. “You worried me — that’s all. And you came back to me.”

But James backed away rather than allowing himself to sink any further into Q. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly, voice full of remorse. “I get that way sometimes. I just wanted to remember their weaknesses.”

“James. Please,” Q invited quietly, opening himself to the ghost. He shifted to get comfortable and held out his hands again. “You need to be ready. We both do. Would you like me to show you what I’m going to do?”

The practical invitation snagged James’ attention, and he stopped backing away. He hesitated, looking at Q’s hands.

“Yes,” he said after a moment. “When I’ve calmed. I’ll be back soon.”

And then he was gone, before Q could say anything or stop him. The fire in the stove roared back to life in a surge of heat, but Q shivered all the same.

He sighed and got up, ignoring the ache in his back. He filled his pot and put it on the wood stove for tea.

What the hell was he doing? Taking a ghost’s tether with him... Ghosts weren’t stable. They were _people_ , but they were raw emotions, often without thought or logic to balance them. Yes, it was incredible that James had survived this long, with no deterioration to his intellect or self-identity, but he was still... _dead_.

And Q was growing attached.

Part of that, at least, was physical. Because god, he’d had more unbelievable orgasms in the last twenty-four hours than through all of his teenage years and twenties — and not for lack of trying. Being psychic meant he had another sense, and James... Well, James was, to date, Q’s only lover able to _reach_ that other sense.

But there was more to it. Perhaps it was childish hero-worship, but James’ file, even with all the redactions, was _incredible_. The stuff of movies and books and web documentaries. And yet, no one really knew or cared that James Bond had ever existed, except for a few amateur historians more interested in the scandal of his death — the young woman in New York who’d been targeted by her KGB lover turned vengeful assassin, the  mercenaries who crossed the world to hunt James down... It was as if James had accomplished nothing but dying in a spectacular, tabloid manner.

Still, Q was resolved. He would help James find a way to drive off his enemies, and then he would help find James’ tether and invite him — not demand, but _invite_ — into the outside world. He’d find a way to introduce James to Eve, and together they’d hunt other ghosts, or Q would get himself a job as a programmer or tech, and James could stay with him as long as he liked.

And maybe, when Q finally died, as everyone inevitably did, maybe he wouldn’t have to be alone after that, either. Q had grown up knowing that life and death were the same thing, just separated by a veil that was translucent to him and opaque to most others. He didn’t know what was too far beyond that veil, but he’d never been afraid of finding out. The thought of not being alone, though...

He smiled, thinking that maybe they could both find out, together.


	8. Chapter 8

“All right,” Q said, holding up the plastic bottle he’d mixed just a little while earlier, giving a surprisingly complicated explanation of the chemistry behind what he was doing. “Watch my back.”

James rested a hand on Q’s shoulder, stroking a thumb against his throat, and extended his senses, waiting for the first hint that the enemy was approaching. He was riding Q’s senses as well, and he heard, through physical ears, the soft, rhythmic hiss of the spray misting through the air and over the hole in the wall.

“We’re searching for which bullets might have blood on them,” Q explained as he saturated the area. Then he turned off the headlamp — clever bit of technology, that, and far more portable than the headlamps worn by miners — and turned on a handheld torch that glowed with a blue-white light. “Once we figure that out, we’ll mark the relevant ones with chalk. I don’t want to go touching anything that might be a tether until we have as many identified as possible. If we disturb one, they might all come to defend.”

James steeled himself for whatever reaction Q was waiting for. He knew it would be a visceral reminder of what had happened here, but he thought he was ready for it. He’d spent several hours at his grave, letting his mind wander as his energy travelled around and through his bones. It was as close as he could get to remembering what he was like as a human, sinking his consciousness back into his time-worn skeleton. He’d never tell Q — the poor man would probably think it ridiculously morbid — but it helped.

He also had to make sure his bones weren’t what held him here.  He didn’t _think_ he had any particular attachment to them — he liked to visit them as an exercise in centring himself, but he couldn’t be sure until he... well... _asked_. He was sure that would be some sort of resonance, or sense of attachment. He’d even tried to imagine how he would feel if the enemy had somehow got hold of his skeleton. The thought didn’t spark any particular rage or fear in him, so he took it as a sign.

Of course, none of that — rational thought being needed — could happen until _after_ he’d purged the darkness from himself. He hadn’t intended to slip into memory like that. When he’d first started thinking about violence, it was to plan an attack, using his knowledge of his former life, to push away, push apart, rather than simply overpower. He’d thought about training, about the weaknesses of his opponents. Somehow, however, he’d lost focus. He’d allowed himself to relive the experiences — the thrill of victory, the horror of pain — in pursuit of that knowledge. He knew himself well enough to realise that he’d probably affected Skyfall around him, as well. He’d come out of rage blackouts with windows broken, walls with holes in them, shattered furniture, and worse.

But Q, the damned fool genius, hadn’t left. Hadn’t run away in terror, nor even pulled away from James. Instead, he’d actually opened himself up further, offering comfort.

James sighed. He watched Q spray his concoction, knowing he had to talk to Q about what happened. To tell him that such things were going to happen, and that the best thing Q could do was leave so James couldn’t accidentally hurt him.

But not here. Not in this room.

He couldn’t talk about his darkness in the room where he’d died.

It wasn’t until Q checked the third bullet hole that he said, “Aha! Look, James. Can you see that?”

James had to share Q’s sight — vision as a ghost was an odd thing in ways that James hadn’t realised until he’d shared Q’s senses and remembered what it was like to see through human eyes. Deep inside the hole in the wall, he could see a faint flicker of brilliant blue.

“That’s blood,” Q said with a grin. “This might well be one of them. Now, to find the rest.”

He stared at the little fleck of blue for as long as he could before Q moved away. Contrary to what he’d expected, there was absolutely no visceral reaction. He’d almost expected to be overwhelmed by darkness again at the physical proof of what had brought him to this side of the veil, but the clinical nature of what Q was doing and the chemical reaction that resulted which mercifully looked _nothing_ like blood left him cold with indifference.

It was a relief.

“Only three died by my gun,” he reminded Q.

“The rest will be more complicated,” Q admitted. “We’ll need to look for fragments of weapons — you mentioned knives — and then areas where blood or other, er, physical matter may have splattered and got trapped between floorboards or in crevices. Or if there’s something else, like maybe a ring that rolled into a crack, however unlikely. Anything they touched or carried, including parts of their own bodies, are their most likely tethers, since they didn’t live here.”

James looked at the floor with a frown. “There was blood everywhere. And there are probably fragments of their bodies all over, too.” He grinned ruefully at Q. “One of them hit me hard enough to have me seeing double. My aim with the knife wasn’t precision-level work.”

Q shivered visibly — he really wasn’t suited for this sort of thing — and said, “That could complicate matters. And, of course, I’ve thought of another possibility.” He sprayed again and switched his headlamp for the blacklight. “It could be that only the strongest presence is tethered here. _He_ might be forcing the others to stay.”

James tipped his head in thought — a habit he’d learned from his father that had carried over in death — and nodded. “That makes sense. The mercs were hired hands. They had no emotional investment here, or with me. But I’d prefer to try and get rid of them all at once anyway. It would not be worth it to be wrong.”

“Oh, of course. In a way, it makes it both easier and harder. One focus instead of many, but it means the agent — assuming he’s the strongest one — is powerful enough to hold them all here.” Q turned to face Bond and pulled off the headlamp, sending shadows everywhere. He ruffled a hand through his hair and asked, “Do you have a sense of identity from them? Are they aware enough of themselves as distinct individuals, or are they more like... well, like a pack of dogs under an alpha?”

James reached out to run his hand through Q’s hair. “It’s much more organized than either of those things, actually. They sort of... slither together into one vile entity whose only consciousness is to attack.”

“God, that’s horrid,” Q said, wrapping an arm around himself with another shiver, “but it bears out the possibility that we only have to drive off the leader, and the others may leave on their own — or they may simply lose coherency and slip away, as if pulled by gravity. It takes effort — desire — for a ghost to remain here instead of moving on.”

“They _shouldn’t_ be held here by effort or desire on their part. Mercs are in it for the money and the thrill of the chase. Once they died, they should have gone away.”

“More and more likely, then,” Q said, lowering his hand from his other arm. He reached out to Bond, obviously seeking comfort, and asked, “Would you mind showing me _exactly_ where you, er, killed the enemy agent?”

James automatically took the offered hand and pulled Q closer. He sent him thoughts of comfort and warmth, holding nothing of himself back if Q decided he wanted to reach for it. He took Q’s jaw in his free hand and stroked at Q’s pulse. “It’s a bit fuzzy,” he warned Q softly.

“That’s all right,” Q said, closing his eyes. He seemed to lean into James’ touch, though he didn’t actually move, and James felt the ‘edge’ between their separate energies blur and merge. “Anything you can remember — anything we can use to find his focus. If not the, er, remnant of where he died, perhaps a favourite weapon he had, maybe with a fragment that broke off, or something that fell from his pocket and got lodged or lost.”

“He was behind the stairs,” James murmured, turning his head to look. “I didn’t notice him. He hit me. Hard. Broke a rib, I think. I swung back, aiming for where my shot, before I ran out of ammo, had hit. His kidney, I’d thought.” He took Q by the hand and brought him to the little staircase that led up to the balcony. “He stabbed me. I broke his wrist. I didn’t have the knife — I’d used to it kill one of the others.” He stopped and shook his head. “There’s more, but it’s probably not relevant. Then I broke his neck.”

Q let out a somewhat shaky breath and nodded. “All right. Let’s start searching,” he said, switching over to the blacklight. He aimed the light at the floor, but turned to James instead of looking down. “If you’d like to cover the area, that would help, too. I know it can be disquieting to be _right here_ , if...” He trailed off delicately.

“I’ve never stood there,” James confessed, avoiding looking at the spot Q was indicating. “There was so much pain. What you saw earlier, in the kitchen... it might happen again if I...”

“Check the area, then,” Q said sympathetically, gesturing at the walls. “If you feel anything odd, don’t go near it. I can investigate further. I’ll be fine, I promise.”

“I wasn’t like this as a man, you know,” James said regretfully as he drifted towards the walls. “Emotions were no particular challenge of mine. I don’t know what it is about losing your body that makes you a slave to your emotions, but it happens.” He shrugged, peering at the plaster, trying to articulate the problem. “What I did earlier, when I was trying to remember? I can’t always prevent falling into that despair.”

Q knelt down and began searching the floor, leaning in close to examine the boards. “That’s perfectly normal. You have no counterbalance. The body gives us an outlet for emotional expression — tears, laughter, even sex. Without a body, the emotions build up until you express them the only way you can: through a physical manifestation of power.”

James chuckled. “That sounds so _purposeful_. But I can’t channel it into something useful. Can you imagine how powerful I’d be if I could control it?” He thought about the broken windows and shattered furniture. “I’d truly be a force to be reckoned with.”

“We can learn together,” Q offered. “I can provide an outlet for your emotional energy, through physical activity — and not _just_ sex,” he added with an utterly unselfconscious laugh. “Eve’s always bothering me to do something horrid, like take up jogging. It would be much nicer with you for company.”

“Jogging,” James repeated. He smirked at Q as he continued his walk along the wall. “I’m not sure that...”

A sudden, cold radiance of energy stopped Bond in his tracks. He withdrew his hand from the wall, hissing at the stinging sensation. “Fuck,” he murmured, hovering in place, torn between wanting to move closer to examine the anomaly and feeling like he should back away.

“What is it?” Q asked, looking up at once. He got to his feet and aimed the bright-dark torchlight at the wall. “Are they —”

He cut off with a sudden grunt as he fell back, crashing hard to the floor. The torch went flying from his hand as he slid too far to have been caused by tripping. For one instant, James felt a surge of surprise and alarm crackle down the connection they shared.

Then it was nearly shredded by a rush of icy power, like sharp shards driven by a blizzard, as _they_ came.

James cursed at his stupidity, backing away from what was obviously what Q called a ‘tether’. It must have been what drew _them_ here — his proximity must have been seen as a threat.

“We’re not ready for them! You need to leave!” James shouted at Q over the low hum of violent, angry power.

Dazed as he was, Q was still focused enough to reach for James, not with a hand but with his power. It hit hard, harder than James expected, and as strength flooded through him, he realised Q was shielding only from external attack, without holding back anything from James.

“They won’t let me,” Q said in a rush, scrambling to get into the corner of the room, his movements uncoordinated from how fiercely he was concentrating on James. True to his words, the enemy presence split into two parts, with most of them focused on James, while a few went after Q.

James felt fury, hate, and anger burning in the centre of his being. It wasn’t enough that they were pointlessly attacking him. Now they were attacking Q, his lover, his human, his friend, and they could actually hurt Q if they wanted to.

The room filled with icy fog and the flickering light from the torch went black as they all clawed for power, tearing it from the air around them. James was stronger than they were, and he greedily stole the energy first, adding it to the power that Q was feeding him. Between the untainted, chaotic energy of the room and the more positive, steady energy coming from Q, James felt powerful. Vibrant. Unstoppable.

But power wasn’t speed, and the enemy converged between them, too quickly for James to intervene. The other ghosts had no idea that Q was feeding James energy — otherwise they would have attacked Q at once — but they’d figure it out in moments. The KGB bastard was smart.

James rushed at them with the tenacity of an American footballer, using the energy-tether to Q to guide himself through the enemy’s darkness. Most of them scattered, but one was strong enough to regroup. Instead of going for James, he dove at Q, a spear of deadly kinetic energy strong enough to break bones and possibly snap his neck.

James didn’t think. He was an uncontained lightning storm, a magnet for power, pure destruction. He threw himself into Q’s attacker, pooling in his centre, and sent surges of fierce energy radiating outward. It ripped the attacker apart from the inside out, shattering him completely, so that even his screams of agony were destroyed before they could echo off the walls.

It felt fucking _fantastic_ , and James laughed at the dark thrill, turning to face the others.

 

~~~

 

As the screams echoed inside Q’s head, he dared to look up. His physical eyes saw nothing — not even a flicker of light from his torch — but his mind’s eye was all but blinded with the frenetic power sparking through the room like a captive lightning storm. He ducked and covered his head, all too aware that the ghosts _could_ hurt him, and he pressed into the corner of the room, belatedly wishing he’d thought to get out from under the balcony that circled around three sides of the great hall.

He was tempted to leave himself and follow James into his world, to better observe the fight, but he couldn’t risk losing himself. James’ warning about ghostly possession was sharp in his memory; he had to hold onto his body, because that energy — his _life_ — was all that gave James the strength to fight off so many attackers.

So instead, he curled up into a ball and tried to find his centre, relaxing his muscles despite how he flinched at half-heard, half-imagined crashes and screams of pain. He breathed deeply and opened himself further to James, knowing this was their best chance, unprepared as they were.

Strength drained from him, but he didn’t put up any barriers between himself and James. The battle was too frenetic for him to follow, dipping from this world to the other too quickly for Q to follow, psychic or not. But he could feel the enemy growing weaker, either from exhaustion or from James actually reducing their numbers. The lesser ones must have been tethered to the strongest one — the KGB agent.

_The tether!_

Q’s breath caught as he realised that James wouldn’t be able to drive off the agent unless Q found whatever it was that tethered him here. He looked up, shivering as his consciousness sank back into his body. Frost was gathering on the floor in patches, exuding an unnaturally still, thick fog, but the darkness had cleared. Q spotted his blacklight only a few metres away.

He scrambled for it, but just as his fingers closed over icy metal, _something_ slammed into his body even harder than the first impact that had been their opening salvo. He clutched the torch by instinct as his feet left the ground. He hit the wall with stunning force and hung there for an unnaturally long moment before he dropped, gasping. He had a sense of James, little more than a flicker of blue eyes and rage.

Heart pounding, Q tried to get at the luminol he’d mixed. His back ached, but he could breathe, which he hoped meant no ribs were broken. He had no idea where his glasses had gone. He found the luminol and started spraying blindly in a mist as he crawled towards the corner where the enemy had first struck.

Bright drops caught Q’s attention, but the blood was fresh. Panic surged through him again as he felt his own body, through the thick layers, but the blood was from nothing worse than a split lip. Shaking with relief and adrenaline, Q kept going, recoiling from the flashes of the combat he kept seeing out of the corner of his eyes.

James was pulling on his strength now, no longer passively accepting. Q opened himself as much as he could, until his already blurry vision started to go all spotty. Then, with a wordless apology, he drew back just a bit, just enough to stay conscious, and he went back to spraying and searching until his icy fingers ached and the bottle was nearly empty.

A flicker made him think that the combat had surged close again, but it went away until Q ran the torchlight over that spot once more. It was something else, a spot of blue-white like frozen lightning — the luminol.

 _Yes_ , he thought, and dropped the bottle in favour of digging his lighter out of his pocket. It was an old Zippo, the type of thing that would ignite in anything short of a windstorm. He put down the torch, light glowing over the tiny fluorescent speck, and opened the lighter. One flick of his thumb got the flame to spark to life, despite the unnatural cold filling the great hall.

In an instant, he was surrounding by battling darkness. A force of pure _rage_ and _hate_ barrelled at him full force, but before it could descend on Q, something else came between it and him.

James.

He couldn’t hear or see so much as feel the clash of the two powerful agents as they did their best to rip each other apart. The hair on Q’s arms stood on end as the storm-like power came close, then was ripped away, then came close, then was pushed away. Though Q had blocked any incoming energy from James, he could still feel the protective fury that had James coming again and again between Q and the KGB agent.

The lighter had gone out. Q fumbled, forcing his cold fingers to obey. He spun the wheel, feeling it scratch and catch at his thumbnail before the flame came alive once more.

Then, not caring about the dry wood floor and the thought of fire, Q shoved the flame at the tiny, luminescent spot of old, dry blood.


	9. Chapter 9

Everything _hurt_.

Q rolled onto his side, feeling pain radiate through his back. He was lying on something hard and cold, but he heard the familiar crinkle of his sleeping bag.

He moved his feet. Why was he wearing his boots? The sleeping bag crinkled again. Confused, he opened his eyes to utter darkness and emptiness.

“Fuck,” he whispered, wanting to at least get the sleeping bag wrapped around him and under him, but he didn’t dare move. His muscles felt like he’d been packed in ice. His neck ached, and he had a headache to rival all hangovers, but this wasn’t a hangover.

Memory hit in a rush.

“James!” he shouted, sitting up — or trying to. He got an arm under himself and pushed, only to end up curled on his side again as his back locked up so tight that he couldn’t breathe.

There was no vocal response, but Q felt a warmth suffusing him that was both familiar and comforting. Sparks of electricity tingled weakly against his muscles, loosening them, and Q felt the faintest press of something to the pulse point under his jaw.

He let out a gasping sort of laugh as he sank back down onto the floor. “You’re all right,” he said, relief making him almost dizzy. His mental defences were little more than shreds. He dropped every last barrier, needing to feel James — to _know_ he was all right.

 _Depleted_ , came the hum of a response. _But successful._

“Oh, thank god,” Q whispered, closing his eyes. He tugged the sleeping bag back up, thinking they were still in the great hall. James must have brought it to him. “The fire?”

 _Out._ James curled up in Q’s mind like an exhausted cat. _You’re brilliant. You got them all._

Q wrapped his thoughts around James, no longer caring that he was lying on the floor. “ _We_ did,” he corrected. “Are you all right? Really?”

Affirmation purred contentedly along Q’s body, reaching from toes to the top of his head. _I have very little power left, but that’s only temporary. I’ll recover._ The hum turned into something more focused, like a massage along his sore muscles. _Are you all right?_

“Fine. Just bruises, I suspect. I’d very much like to lie here for a bit, if you don’t mind,” Q said, which was a general truth, even though there were specific not-fine parts. The lovely thing about James’ touch was that it wasn’t _pressure_ , so the energy did nothing to set off those bruises the way that prodding fingers would.

 _Sleep_ , James encouraged. _I won’t leave._

Q smiled and let himself slip further into James’ energy, until the lines between them were blurry and the aches of his body had faded into a distant throb. “I’m glad you’re all right,” he said as he let himself fall asleep, knowing that he was safe.

 

~~~

 

Q paid for his exhausted crash hours later, when he awoke to stiff muscles and an even worse hangover headache that threatened to crest into a migraine if he didn’t get caffeine and aspirin into his body. Without moving, he stared across the great hall at the tepid grey sunlight glowing against the windows. This time, he didn’t have to call for James. The ghost was still a warm presence tangled up inside him, relaxed and content.

With a groan, Q rolled over and pushed up onto all fours. His back still hurt, and he knew it would get worse before it got better, especially without such comforts as a hot bath. He was tempted to try and find buckets or something to heat water in the kitchen and haul it upstairs for a bath, but that sounded like far too much work. Caffeine. Painkillers.

Having a short-term goal helped. He got himself upright, one hand on the wall, and dragged his sleeping bag along just for extra warmth. His sleep schedule was all turned around again, though he wasn’t quite sure being knocked unconscious by a ghost and passing out from energy depletion counted as ‘sleep’ in any way.

The thought made him shiver. They’d come so close to failing. But they hadn’t. They’d driven off the other ghosts, and now they were free to find James’ tether. The thought made him grin.

James remained with him, quiescent, as he dragged himself to the kitchen. He used a match to light the camp stove and started heating water. Then he brushed his teeth — his mouth tasted like something had died on his tongue — and went outside for a few cold moments. He was queasy enough that he wasn’t hungry, but he forced himself to finish a bowl of hot oatmeal along with his tea.

James must have been caught up in a feedback loop from Q’s body. The oatmeal and tea made Q feel better, and James stirred as if responding to the warmth and caffeine. Q smiled at James’ gentle, sparking touch that stretched through his mind and body.

“Good morning,” he said as he refilled the cup of tea from the steaming thermos.

James unfurled from around Q’s consciousness to form in front of him. He was unusually translucent, and Q could barely see him. He kept losing sight as James faded out and faded back in, but even without the visual aid, Q was fully aware of James’ smug, victorious smile.

“Good morning,” he said cheerfully. “How do you feel?”

“Conscious.” Q grinned and brushed his hand through James’ form. “How are you? Is there anything I can do for you?”

“I’m fine. Still low on energy. It will take me awhile to replenish.” James looked down at the tea and smiled a bit wider. “I can’t rely on caffeine, and feeding off the ambient energy of nature is a much slower process.”

“Oh, you poor thing. I’ll have your share of caffeine,” Q teased, reaching out with his free hand as he took a sip from the plastic cup, opening his mind to allow James to share the simple pleasures of taste and warmth.

James’ visage vanished again as his energy brushed against Q’s. Q felt the hum of his pleasure and contentment as he shared Q’s experience. _Thank you._

For a few quiet, relaxing minutes, Q drank the tea and felt James curled up close against him. A part of him still couldn’t believe what he’d found. After a lifetime of communicating with ghosts, he’d thought he knew everything about them, but James proved otherwise. He’d never found one who was so _self-aware_.

But would that start to change? As soon as he thought it, he hid the twinge of concern, though he couldn’t quite banish it. Without the need to be vigilant against his enemies, would James start to fade and fragment the way other ghosts did?

“James,” he said thoughtfully, turning to look in his direction. “I’d like to try something, if you’d be willing.”

James reformed, smiling lazily. “I don’t think I’m quite up to our earlier... _explorations_ ,” he said, mouth twitching with lewd amusement.

Q laughed and elbowed at James. “I _do_ have other talents, you know,” he countered smugly. “I think this should be easy, since I won’t fight you. I want to see how far our sharing can go — if we can share my body.”

James’ smile vanished. “Absolutely not. I refuse to try possession.” He floated backwards several steps, then looked around. “We should find my tether.”

“We will.” Q sat forward and put the thermos and cup on the floor. “I’d like to try, though. I trust you. You won’t hurt me, and I know you’ll give it back. I think it could help us both.”

“Why?” James asked, and though he stopped moving intentionally he was still drifting slowly away from Q. “Possession blurs the lines between souls, Q. It takes away independent thought and choice, because you don’t know where your thoughts end and mine begin.” He shook his head. “I will not take away your free will.”

“Is it taking away my free will if it’s my idea?” Q asked. “Last night, or earlier” — he glanced at the window — “it proved that I need to know better how to defend myself. I want to work with you on learning how to take myself back, if another ghost gets in. I want to learn how _you_ fight, so I can help you. And what if there’s an emergency? If I’m not conscious, you can get me to safety. Last night... I set fire to the room, James. You put it out, but what if you hadn’t been able to?”

“All very logical,” James said, stilling at last several yards away from Q. “But have you ever been possessed before? It’s a violation.”

“I haven’t, no,” Q admitted. He got to his feet with a little wince at the ache in his back. Then, because James was so uncomfortable with the thought, he said, “We can discuss it another time, though. Do you have any ideas about your tether?”

James narrowed his eyes at Q. “Yes, we can discuss it another time. After I’m sure that you have a way to be rid of me if you cease to want me possessing you.” He looked around thoughtfully. “I suppose the tether will help with that.”

Q smiled and walked towards James. “I think we should start in the attic. You’ve defended the attic for a reason. There may be something there.”

James nodded, looking at Q thoughtfully. Then he smirked again. “Perhaps you should just walk around with your lighter, see what incites me to protective rage.”

“And you _don’t_ think possession is safe?” Q asked with a laugh. “Let’s not go poking at your more protective instincts. Perhaps a perfectly conventional search would work just as well.” He held out his hand and said, “While it will be more efficient for you to do most of the searching, since you don’t need to actually open crates or have a torch, I’d like you to stay close. If you don’t mind, that is.”

“I find it difficult to consider going anywhere without you,” James confessed, reaching out to Q. “I’m quite attached — odd, given that I’ve gone a hundred years without you and have only known you for days. But there you have it.”

Q smiled and drew James close before he turned to gather up what he’d need. Warm jumper, torch, the thermos of tea, gloves in case he had to deal with splintered crates. “I feel the same,” he admitted. “Thank you, James. For trusting me to help find your tether, I mean.”

“I’ve seen and touched the core of you, Q,” James said with a laugh as he drifted towards the steps. “I’d trust you with anything.”

 

~~~

 

James stood in the middle of the attic, looking around thoughtfully. He wondered how it was possible for the others, barely aware and feral and disconnected from their human personalities, could know immediately what their tethers were and James was absolutely clueless.

He didn’t feel connected to much from his former life; his parents were mostly absent and he wasn’t attached to Skyfall, given how much they travelled when he was young. The plants and the space were important to him, but he knew instinctively that they weren’t his tether.

He didn’t know how long he stood there, trying to sense something. Anything. But there was no tug, no otherworldly glow, no indication of any kind that there was anything special to him here.

“I suppose I should just start peering into boxes?” he asked Q, who hadn’t let go of his hand.

“I suppose,” Q guessed, giving James a shrug and a smile. “It could be anything — something from your childhood, something with meaning that you’ve forgot about...”

James drifted slowly to the back corner, moving with purpose but not quickly so Q would be able to follow. “I’ll start with just dragging my hand through, shall I?” he suggested with a grin. “I’m sure I’d feel _something_. May as well be methodical.”

At first, James didn’t feel anything. He dragged his hand up and down through the boxes that had been packed and left alone for decades, focusing every sense he had on rooting out whatever it was the kept him here. It didn’t make sense, logically, that he’d be rooted here without any idea why. If he stayed to protect something, shouldn’t he know what that something was?

“So, the others’ attachments were things they had contact with in the last moments of their lives,” James said thoughtfully. “What else have you run into in your travels?”

“Well, last moments or treasured moments,” Q said, looking around with curiosity he tried but failed to completely hide. “Often, it’s something from childhood — something you may not consciously recall, like a first toy. Or it could be something attached to a significant event. One ghost seemed to be attached to his wife’s hairbrush. Apparently, she was upstairs, brushing her hair, when someone tried to break in. The man protected her, but had a heart attack and died.” Q gave James a sheepish smile. “I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful.”

James hummed thoughtfully. “I don’t remember having toys as a child, but I suppose there must have been.” He gave Q a sheepish grin. “It _has_ been a while.” Q followed along as James continued to sift through the boxes. Occasionally, Q lifted a sheet to peer at the furniture beneath or flashed the torchlight into an open crate. “And my parents travelled a great deal. Most of their possessions were inherited, and they tended not to accumulate more. They didn’t care about things.”

For a moment, James stopped looking and stood still. He closed his eyes, remembering. “Things that were important,” he said quietly, trying to recall his former life for the first time in decades. “Riding horses with Kincaid. Shooting pistols with my father. Tending to the flowers with my mother.” He sighed and opened his eyes, then started on the next box. “Dinners together, rare as they were. Dinners with Kincaid and Patricia, which weren’t rare and a good deal more fun.” He turned and gave Q a grin. “Patricia made the best apple pie.”

“A fork?” Q guessed. When James shot him an incredulous look, he grinned and innocently said, “I’m _helping_ , James.” Then he laughed and shook his head, sweeping the flashlight around. “All right. Horses are out, but something you wore or carried? Maybe even some part of your favourite horse, like a braid from its mane or tail? Those things last, don’t they?”

“James Bond, 007, spy extraordinaire, kept tethered to his former life by a braid of horsehair. Or a fork.” James looked over at Q and laughed. Then something occurred to him, and even just the memory sparked something in his mind. “Oh. OH.” He grinned at Q before letting go of his hand to drift in the centre of the room. “I know what it is.”

“What?” Q followed, sweeping the torch around, searching.

“There has been exactly one constant in my life.” He spotted the tall walnut cabinet he was looking for, predictably hung by the door. “A Bamford & Martin 1.5 litre Side Valve Short Chassis Tourer; I still remember the picnics we had together over the years — my father, my mother, and I. I inherited it and took it to Eton with me. A 1935 French Blue Bugatti, the first car I ever worked on with Kincaid. And a 1953 Aston Martin DB3, the car I drove until I died.” He gripped Q close and led him to the cabinet.

Q followed, tipping the torch up to shine the light on the cabinet door. He shot James a questioning look before he reached out and opened the door, revealing rows of keys. It took only a moment for James to single out the key ring, which held four distinct keys and a rabbit’s foot, of all things. He still remembered the card game where he’d won the Aston Martin; he’d kept the rabbit’s foot keychain as a matter of principle. _It wasn’t luck_ , he remembered thinking. _It was skill._

“I’m not quite strong enough to pick it up,” he admitted, running his hand through the keys, grinning at the spark the contact caused. “But that’s it.”

Q lifted a hand, before he glanced at James and asked, “May I, then?”

James glanced at Q, then the keys. He waited for some sort of possessive reaction, some sign of rage that had taken the others when Q had approached their tethers. Nothing came. “I think so,” he said. “I’m not feeling murderous at the thought. That’s reassuring.”

With a bright, confident smile at James, Q touched the rabbit’s foot keychain. Then, without looking away from James, he lifted the keychain in his palm, easing it off the hook. “All right, then?” he asked calmly.

James looked from the keychain to Q and back. He felt... _odd_. It wasn’t bad, but it was different. He felt at loose ends, displaced, and even a bit tingly. “It’s strange,” he said after a moment. “I’m not sure how it feels.” He looked at Q. “Try walking away. Downstairs.”

Q studied James’ expression for a moment. Then he nodded, brushing his hand through James’ before he slowly walked to the stairs. At the top of the stairs, he looked back. “Call me back if you need,” he said. He turned and started down the stairs.

Now that James had realised and acknowledged his tether, the tug of it was a nearly physical propulsion. The idea of it being out of sight, away from him, was an uncomfortable one — but one he could control. Though perhaps the fact the _Q_ was the one who had it was the reason for his ability to control himself. He had been absolutely honest when he told Q he trusted him; it was impossible not to, having touched his core and carved a place for himself around Q’s mind. Q would never hurt him.

As soon as he felt the motion of the keychain stop — Q was in the kitchen now, he realised — he left the attic to rematerialise slowly in front of Q, careful not to startle him. He grinned at Q, triumphant. “Fascinating.”

“You’re all right? No murderous desire to throw knives at me again?” he asked, his smile suddenly teasing.

“You found the oil, didn’t you?” he teased back. “No, not a single negative urge. Just the desire to follow you everywhere. Which, to be fair, was there before.” He brushed against Q as he drifted past, staring at the keychain with fascination. “But I suspect that if someone _else_ had it, I wouldn’t be nearly so generous.”

“I won’t let that happen. I promise you that.” Q looked at his bags and held the keychain tightly. “Do you know if it’s the rabbit’s foot or the keys? Or the whole thing? If it’s the keys, I could put them on a necklace, so I’d always have them with me. I, er, don’t think it would be very sanitary to do that with a rabbit’s foot.”

James hummed and reached out to touch the keys. He felt a tingle up his arm and into his core as he dragged his fingers through the ring and each individual key. The rabbit’s foot didn’t inspire the same electric jolt. “Just the keys and the ring they’re attached to. The rabbit’s foot originally belonged to an enemy. It was a trophy, not something I was attached to. It can go.”

“No offence, but that’s something of a relief,” Q admitted. He sat down on the cot and pried the ring open so he could work the rabbit’s foot off. “Honestly, I don’t even know where to start. The world has changed so much — the computers alone... It’s all so different. Is there anything _you_ want to see or do first?”

James laughed, feeling better than he had in ages. “This is incredible,” he confessed, feeling a thrum of excited energy pulsing around the edges of his projection. “I’m not at war anymore.”

“At war?” Q tipped his head before he said, “Oh! The enemy. Yes, you’re safe.” He smiled, though there was a new hint of anxiety in his expression.

“Safe,” James dismissed, waving his hand. “I don’t have to be here anymore. I don’t _want_ to be here anymore.” He grinned and let go of his suddenly vibrant projection to curl up inside Q. “I don’t care where we go, as long as I get to keep you.”

Q laughed and wrapped his arms around himself, fingers curled around the keys. “For as long as you’d like,” he said as the anxiety melted away. “I can’t wait for you to meet Eve. And to see London. God, how it’s changed! It’s not all for the better, but it’s different. I think you’ll like it. I can even take a tour of MI6 — at least the parts they’ll show to the public. It’s in a horrid new building, right on the Thames.”

“I’d like that,” James replied, wondering just when MI6 had acknowledged its existence. But after a moment’s thought, he realised that he didn’t actually care much. It had been so long — his wars were over, his enemies were dead, and there wasn’t anything he could do for England any more.

In fact, other than his lover, there was only one thing in the world that might actually hold his attention. He’d heard of the amazing changes in technology over just a short forty years — what must cars be like now? How fast could they go? James found himself curious about even what colours they could come in. Driving one of them, feeling the wind in his hair, might be something worth possessing Q for.

“Q?”

“Yes?”

“What kind of car do _you_ drive?”


	10. Chapter 10

“Sebastian?” Eve’s knock echoed loudly through the empty house. She shivered, pulling her coat tightly around her shoulders. “You here?”

“Coming!” He jogged into sight, holding up the battery lantern. He’d got lazy about shaving, and now, with a dark beard growing in, he looked closer to his age. He was wrapped up in layers, moving lithely, grinning like a fiend.

Eve let out a relieved sigh. She was always worried, leaving him alone in desolate, remote locations, and it had nothing to do with ghosts. Mobile reception was spotty here at best, and if something had happened — an injury or even a bad cold — he would have had a long walk to civilisation.

“Tell me that grin means you found something,” she said, putting down the no-longer-warm fast food she’d picked up an hour ago as a treat for him.

“You have _no idea_ ,” he all but sang, pulling her into a hug that lifted her off her feet.

Yelping in surprise, she started to laugh. “Put me down!” As soon as her boots touched the old floorboards, she asked, “Did we get it? Is this one our break?”

“Not exactly, but we’re closer.” Sebastian’s grin didn’t fade. He took Eve’s hand, swept up the sack of food, and tugged her deeper into the house. “You know how first contact almost always drives them away, no matter what we try?”

“Yeah. God knows you’ve complained about it enough. Sneak cameras in, talk to them, even try to provoke a reaction —”

“Never again.” His hand tightened on hers as he shivered. “But I won’t have to. What would you say if I told you I’ve found an intermediary?”

“A what?”

“A, er... well, sort of a third partner.”

“Sebastian!” she scolded. “We make no bloody money off this as it is! If not for your savings and my day —”

“No, no! Not a — God, this is complicated.” He shook his head and brought her into the kitchen, where he’d packed up his kit. But instead of handing over luggage for her to take, he brought her to the kitchen counter, where he had his Scrabble board laid out.

Eve’s smile faltered. She believed Sebastian — she really did — but the Scrabble trick was... well, _awkward_ for her. A couple of times, she’d seen the tiles shift, but they’d never made any sense, despite Sebastian trying to translate whatever the ghosts were trying to convey.

He met her eyes and gave her hand one last squeeze before letting go. “Trust me, Eve. This is different.”

Then he looked past her, eyes focused on a spot right behind her, and a shiver passed over her nape.

“James,” Sebastian said, his smile turning radiant. “This is Eve Moneypenny, my best friend.”

“James?” she asked, excitement driving away the shiver of dread. “James _Bond_? You got — _Fucking hell!_ ” she gasped out as the tiles on the board shifted, visibly and decisively. The rasp of tiny bits of wood on cardboard was as loud as claws raking over the walls, and Eve stumbled back, watching as the puddle of letters reconfigured under an invisible hand. The middle of the board cleared, leaving a space big enough for some of the letters to draw together, forming words.

_HELLO MISS MONEYPENNY_

“Fuck. Q,” she said, throwing a wild-eyed look around the kitchen for the cameras. Her own rig was in the car; she’d planned on setting up wrap shots after Sebastian ate his lunch. “Tell me you’re recording this.”

“Well, no,” he said, sounding embarrassed. “It’s... complicated.”

Before Eve could point out that this seemed pretty bloody _uncomplicated_ from her point of view, the tiles abruptly shifted again, reconfiguring to read: _I APOLOGISE FOR COMPLICATING MATTERS_.

“God. Is that — wait is that _him?_ ” she asked, swallowing.

_YES,_ the tiles spelled out, as Sebastian nodded. “Yes, that’s James, Eve. James... He’s not like other ghosts. He’s not a memory loop or fragment. He’s... Well, he’s just like us.”

“Just like us,” she said, biting back the urge to remind Sebastian that they weren’t dead. “Right. So, _this_ is what you’ve been” — she waved a trembling hand at the pile of gear — “searching for. Only... _what?_ ”

“James has agreed to help us find others.”

“What do you mean ‘help us find others’?” Eve shook her head in confusion. “Haven’t we already found... others?” she asked, gesturing towards the tiles.

Sebastian’s nervous look got worse, not better. He looked towards the tiles — no, not towards the tiles, but _beside_ them, where someone would be standing. “James is... He’s aware of himself, Eve. If we recorded him, it would be like breaking into your house and recording you.”

_“You’ve done that!”_

Sebastian winced. “It was a camera test, and I had a key! Besides, you were cooking, not... dancing in your knickers or something.”

The tiles shifted again, this time with a hard rattle.

_Q BE NICE TO THE LADY_

“I’m always nice,” Sebastian protested.

Eve tried to suppress a smile as she glanced at the tiles, fascinated. After a moment, she shook her head again, turning back to Sebastian. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand. You found a ghost, correct? An actual, honest-to-god ghost? That really is what I’m seeing here?”

“Yes.” Sebastian shot another glance at the emptiness beside the countertop, as the tiles started to shift slowly. “Only he’s not like other ghosts, Eve. He knows who he is. He knows he died. He’s... a _person_ , not a memory. We can’t record him. It wouldn’t be right.”

_I WANT TO HELP  
I CAN FIND OTHERS_

Eve read over the tiles before darting a glance up in the direction Sebastian kept looking. All she saw was empty space, without even a shimmer to mark whatever stood there between her and the far counter. “If he’s more than just a regular ghost is he — I mean, can I — am I able to see him?”

After a few seconds, Sebastian asked, “Would you let her touch the keys? That might help.”

Eve drew a breath, but Sebastian put up a hand.

Then he nodded gravely and said, “Yes. She’s my closest friend.” He smiled at Eve, and then focused back on the nothingness — the ghost. “Only if you’re...” Then he grinned again and said, “Thank you,” as he tugged at his layered shirts, revealing a tarnished silver necklace that Eve had never before seen. Instead of a medallion or locket or pendant, it had a set of four keys. They looked old and strangely plain. Sebastian tugged the chain free of his shirt, though he kept it around his neck. “Hold this. Let’s see if that helps.”

Eve reached out apprehensively to take hold of the keys. Distantly she wondered if she should be afraid, but all she felt was... curiosity, even if it was tentative. “Seb, are you sure about this? I mean, I’m not —”

Eve’s words died in her throat as a flicker of — of _something_ appeared in the corner of her eye. Everything seemed to stop, the world focusing down to this single point, as the sight of blue suspended in mid-air drew her gaze. “Seb...” she whispered “What...?”

Sebastian’s hand covered hers, and the _blue_ wavered, separating into two distinct points. Her heart jumped into her throat as she realised they were _eyes_. Softly, voice strained with great effort, Sebastian asked, “James?”

A faint whisper, _almost_ faint enough that she could dismiss it as wind or breath, came to her — not to her ears, but to some other sense, like a word felt against her skin. _‘Q_. _’_

The air in Eve’s lungs left her in a rush. _Had those eyes just spoken?_

Transfixed, Eve took a step forward, as though drawn in by the apparition in front of her. She couldn’t turn away as the vision slowly spread out, revealing pale eyebrows and the beginnings of what appeared to be a strong nose. As she moved to take another step, the slight tug on her hand made her realize she was still tethered to Sebastian. Feeling as though a hold had been broken, she blinked, before turning to look back at Sebastian. “Did I just hear him speak?” she asked in awe.

“Yes.” Sebastian took a breath, shifting to lean against the counter.

‘ _Q_ , _’_ the presence said again, this time more sharply, like a prickle of cold wind. _‘Miss Moneypenny_. _’_

“I’m fine,” Sebastian said, but his voice was faint.

The sound of her own name brought Eve up short. “James?” she asked in the direction of what had now become an obvious face. It shimmered around the edges and seemed to shift, as though trying to draw in a clear picture on an old analogue telly. She turned back towards Sebastian, mildly unglued by the entire situation, only to notice him slumped further against the counter. “Are you all right?”

He let go of her hand, and the ghost disappeared. “Both of you,” he said with a little laugh. “I’m fine. I’m fine!” He reached out with both hands, touching Eve’s shoulder and... touching the ghost’s? Sebastian’s other hand was slightly higher, just sitting there in mid-air, fingers curled. “Let’s not do that again, shall we? Not until I sleep and have something that I didn’t cook.” He shot a plaintive look at the fast food sack as he sat down on the floor, folding his arms over his bent knees.

The tiles shifted roughly, a couple of them clattering to the floor. _FEED HIM_

Eve stared at the tiles, somewhat dumbstruck by the turn of events. When the tiles rattled, jumping from where they rested of counter, Eve flinched. “Um, right!” She turned to grab the bag of food and walked over to slump down on the floor next to Sebastian. Opening the bag, she pulled out flattened burger and cold, soggy chips. She smoothed out the bag, setting it on the floor between them and placing the food on top.

Sebastian grabbed at one of the chips and waved it in the air, looking to his other side. “The pinnacle of modern cuisine. Behold, the fast food chip,” he said, and nibbled the end. Then he laughed, covering his face with the back of the hand holding the chip. “It is _not_ revolting. Tell him, Eve.”

Eve barked out a somewhat delirious laugh. Were they really having a conversation about fast food with a _ghost?_ “Actually, Seb, cold chips _are_ rather revolting,” she answered, glancing sideways at the offending food in Sebastian’s hand.

“You’re both heathens,” he said, finding the one crisp spot on the end of the chip, where it had been over-fried and then dehydrated. He crunched through it and wrinkled his nose at Eve. “So, I couldn’t possibly do that with another ghost. Only James,” he said, turning his grin back on the emptiness beside him as he reached for the burger, still eating one-handed. His other hand, Eve saw, wasn’t resting at his side; instead, it was palm-up on his own leg, fingers spread and curled, as if...

“Are you” — she stared at Sebastian’s hand incredulously — “are you _holding his hand?_ ”

Sebastian’s pale skin flushed and he avoided looking at her, instead focusing on the room-temperature, soggy burger. “Well, yes. I mean, technically no, but — Well, yes.” His mouth twitched as he let out a laugh, turning to where the ghost sat. “She doesn’t care that we’re both male. It’s that you happen to lack a body,” he explained.

Eve continued to stare at Sebastian’s hand as she tried to marry the thoughts that were warring in her head. Had she really just encountered a ghost? She always knew that Seb could, but had she really just seen one, as well? And now this. It was one thing to make contact, but now Sebastian seemed, well, _intimate_ with it. Was that even possible?

Sebastian flushed even darker and nudged his elbow into the air. “No, but she _doesn’t_ need to know that. We call that too much information, and some secrets are ours.”

“I’m sorry, stop.” Eve put up a hand to silence Sebastian. She looked over, catching his eye. “What exactly is going on here?”

Sebastian glanced at the ghost — presumably — before turning back to Eve. “We’re sort of...” He put down the burger and touched the keys hanging over his shirt. “I suppose we’re dating?” he ventured.

_“What?”_

“It’s not — It’s not anything to —” Sebastian shook his head, raising his free hand to push his glasses back in place. “No. You know something? I don’t need to justify or explain. I know him, and he knows me. Just because he’s dead doesn’t make him any less important to me. We’re happy together. _That’s_ what matters.”

“I’m sorry, _dating?_ ” Eve stood up, taking a few steps away. She needed to get distance from... Well, from what, she didn’t know. “Do you have any idea how ridiculous that statement sounds?” she exclaimed. Starting to pace, she ran her hands through her hair, as though trying extract the answer that would help all of this make sense. Finally she rounded back on Sebastian. “You can’t _date_ a dead person!”

“Why not?” Sebastian asked — absurdly. Above where he sat, the tiles began to rattle. “I’m _happy_ , Eve. You know I could never be with someone who didn’t believe in me. I could never be happy like that.”

“And what makes you so certain no one ever would? I mean, I did. I still do,” she said, gesturing over to the tiles that were now sliding about the counter. “Obviously.”

“Well, yes, but you’re practically my sister. I couldn’t date you. Or do we not remember that dance?” he asked, raising his brows at her.

“But I’m not exactly your type, am I?” she asked as she glanced back up at the tiles. They were still moving, reshuffling into words she didn’t bother to read. “In _any_ sense, it would seem.”

She shook her head, waving her hands in front of her face as she tried to clear the image of that dance from her mind. “This isn’t the point! We’re talking about you trying to date someone who has been dead for fifty years, Seb!” She glared down at him. “How can that work in any sense? Can he even leave here? I thought you said ghosts were always tied to something near where they died,” she said, gesturing absently around the room. “What, are you planning to stay here, now? Pop back in for visits? _What?_ ”

Sebastian got to his feet, one hand braced against the counter for balance. “He’s coming with me! That’s the point, Eve. _He trusts me!_ ”

A dozen or more Scrabble tiles flew into the air between them. Above the Scrabble board, a cabinet door swung open and slammed shut. the remaining tiles were arranged into words that grew increasingly difficult to understand:

_I WONT HURT HIM_  
I CARE FOR IM  
IF E WANTS TO BE IT SO EONE ELSE  
I ONT S OP I

Sebastian exhaled sharply and reached a hand towards the space by the board. “James —” Then he winced and gave Eve a sullen look. Unhappily, he said, “James wants me to tell you if I want to be with someone else, he won’t stop me. Which _isn’t_ his choice alone.” He glared back at the emptiness.

Eve looked over the letters before finally looking back up at Sebastian. The sad, determined expression in his eyes made her deflate a little. Exhaling, she reached up, gently resting her hand on his arm. “But how can it work?” she asked quietly. “How can you be with someone if you can’t _be_ with someone?”

Sebastian met her eyes, silent for a long moment — not as if he were listening to the ghost, but rather gathering his own thoughts. Then he sighed and sat back down on the floor, beckoning her to sit down as well. “Imagine going through life, never able to touch someone. You can see them, hear them, smell them, but you can’t _touch_. That’s how it _always_ is for me, Eve. I have this... _other_ sense that’s so much more than just this.” He held up his hand, opening and closing his fist. “It’s got nothing to do with bodies. We’ve touched each other... God, I can’t even begin to explain. It’s so much more than just sex.”

Eve reached over and took Sebastian’s hand, holding tightly. “But, Seb, can you really be happy like this? Honestly, can you?” She was trying to understand, she really was. But, like trying to describe the world to someone born blind, she just... couldn’t. And it wasn’t as though she refused. She realized long ago that her friend possessed a gift she would never fully comprehend. That had always been okay for her, too. Or, at least she thought it had.

That was until she touched the veil herself not twenty minutes ago. Now it was real. Now it existed for her, as well. And even if she wasn’t scared of it, she was scared for him. “Are you happy now?”

“Yes.” He gave her a faint smile and held out both of his hands — one to her; the other, she assumed, to James. “Please, Eve... You’re my closest friend. Can you be happy for me? For _us_?”

Eve searched Sebastian’s face. She realized there was a calm about him that she hadn’t noticed before. Not ever, actually. “I just — Are you —” She paused, frustrated when she couldn’t find the words she knew she needed to ask. She peered around him into the nothingness where she guessed James was seated. Finally she looked back at Seb. “Do you love him?”

He turned, facing the emptiness, and she saw the very edge of his smile. “Yes,” he said softly. A moment later, he laughed and lifted his face, eyes closing.

Realizing what she’d just witnessed, Eve blushed and turned away. She couldn’t deny the happiness she saw there. A happiness that was there on both sides, it would seem. In all the time she’d known Sebastian, he always seemed out of step. Never really fitting in. His gift had made it hard for him to connect with people on this side of the veil: _living_ people. There was always some sense missing wherever he went.

But now, sitting here, in a house that seemed to be stuck in time, Sebastian had finally found his place. The peace that radiated off of him said it all. “You and a ghost, huh?”

Sebastian smiled as if hearing the acceptance in her voice. “Who else would be right for me?”

The tiles on the floor shifted, and other tiles fell in a controlled waterfall, dropping from the counter to bounce on the floor beside Sebastian. A few brusque shoves had them all piled up. Sebastian pulled his feet back and returned to his hamburger as the tiles slid across the floor.

_THANK YOU MISS MONEYPENNY_  
I PROMISE TO TAKE GOOD CARE OF Q  
OO7

“Oh-oh-ell?” Eve asked, picking through the chips to find one that wasn’t inedible.

Sebastian grinned and stole the chip from between her fingers. “That’s him. James Bond, 007.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a special note of thanks for Stephrc79, who stepped in to co-write chapter 10 with me, after working so hard to beta the other 9 chapters, and for Rayvanfox, who did a fantastic last-minute beta. Thank you both!  
> \-- Kryptaria
> 
> We have no plans to revisit this 'verse. Thank you all for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> You can find us all on tumblr at [bootsnblossoms](http://www.bootsnblossoms.tumblr.com/), [kryptaria](http://www.kryptaria.tumblr.com/) and [stephrc79](http://www.stephrc79.tumblr.com/). Come say hi!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Haunting bookcover](https://archiveofourown.org/works/918938) by [randomlittleimp](https://archiveofourown.org/users/randomlittleimp/pseuds/randomlittleimp)
  * [Comic for Ch 2 of "The Haunting of Skyfall Lodge"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/922793) by [rerumfragmenta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rerumfragmenta/pseuds/rerumfragmenta)
  * [[Podfic] The Haunting of Skyfall Lodge](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5104472) by [RsCreighton](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RsCreighton/pseuds/RsCreighton), [SomethingIncorporeal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomethingIncorporeal/pseuds/SomethingIncorporeal)




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